A Strange Sort of Fate
by Rachelea
Summary: In the Wizarding World, John goes by another name. So does Sherlock. Neither of them talk about it.
1. Chapter 1

**To my readers: Although he won't show up for a while, for timeline purposes you can think of this story as beginning a few months before Harry starts Hogwarts. This is primarily the tale of Sherlock and John's friendship. Reviews are welcome.**

**(Warning: reviews contain spoilers)**

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><p>If Sherlock Holmes could read his military service in his leg and his sister's drinking habits in his mobile phone, John had very little doubt that the detective had also deduced his real secret. Probably from the moment they met. But Sherlock, most uncharacteristically, hadn't said a word.<p>

John was rather grateful.

It was uncharacteristic of them both, actually, that at first they rarely mentioned the magic. Its casual use was scattered around the flat and seldom suppressed, which was the primary reason D.I. Lestrade's drugs busts were so annoying. Fortunately, Sherlock's reputation was such that when Donovan discovered the dish of half-dissected Horklumps soaking in Shrinking Solution, she merely rolled her eyes and put it back in the microwave with the now-congealing jar of eyeballs.

Judging by the way the tea seemed to have made itself that first morning—John had slept in after a wild night of kidnappings and gunpowder and chasing cabs all over London—and every morning since, John guessed that Mrs. Hudson was no stranger to magic either. When he thanked her, however, she simply gave the standard sweet smile and "You're welcome, dear," before continuing down the hall to berate Sherlock about the state of the flat.

The constantly catastrophic state of 221B was the one thing that magic couldn't seem to fix. It was an implosion of papers and microscope lenses and old potion bottles. It wasn't all bad. The sink did clear itself of dirty dishes every few days (Mrs. Hudson again, John suspected; one day he would catch her at it). Stacks of books straightened themselves periodically, and the wallpaper seemed mysteriously immune to even Sherlock's most exothermic experiments, but for the most part the inhabitants of 221B existed in a limbo of half-organized chaos. John quickly learned to deal with it, military habits notwithstanding. Something about their flat was delightfully reminiscent of the old common room, the corner by the fire in which he and James and Peter and Sirius had often huddled, usually with a stolen bottle of butterbeer or two, to plan out the next week's adventures…

_Not thinking about James and Peter,_ John reminded himself for the thousandth time. And, _Definitely not thinking about Sirius._

James and Peter. Merlin, he missed them.

John hated himself when he caught himself missing Sirius too.

In many ways, however, Sherlock was an acceptable substitute. He was more than that, of course…but sometimes John caught himself mid-laugh and found himself wondering whether his brilliant flatmate hadn't been there all the time, dragging the rest of them along to steal Potions ingredients and somehow transforming snide remarks about Severus' hair into verbal monuments to the god of wit.

Sherlock had caught John gazing at him strangely, once or twice, when these reminiscent moods took him. But he never mentioned it.

When mugs of potion began turning up on the coffee table, without fail, each night of the week before the full moon, John didn't mention that either. For some reason it didn't bother him that Sherlock knew—either because it was already unthinkable that he wouldn't, or because, bizarrely, John _trusted_ Sherlock, or because Sherlock knew everyone's secrets about everything, and next to that turning into a bloodthirsty monster once a month didn't seem quite so embarrassing. John was grateful, too. Potions had always been his worst subject—there were all sorts of rules about temperature and timing and stirring motion that he'd simply never had the patience for. For a potion so enormously complex, John knew even Lily's coaching wouldn't have been enough. Not that he had that option anymore.

Additionally, long-term unemployment in the Wizarding world had shrunk John's Gringott's account to the point that he'd more than once considered closing it entirely. Wolfsbane, if made correctly, cost upwards of forty Galleons a bottle.

Yes, John was ridiculously grateful.

Once or twice he almost voiced it, but something held him back—perhaps the silence that was its own sort of communication between the two of them, or perhaps the nagging realization that this was Sherlock's own way of showing gratitude. For the night with the cabbie, maybe. For everything that had happened since.

A lot had happened. It had taken John much longer than he'd admit to come to terms with Muggle technology (what was wrong with a good old-fashioned owl, for heaven's sake?) but when he'd typed the first reluctant words into the empty cyberspace of his blog, he couldn't have imagined how quickly it would fill with stories. Him and Sherlock and their completely _mental_ adventures. Some of them, to his mind, even madder than roaming the Forbidden Forest in the dead of night with what looked like half an escaped menagerie.

_That,_ he cringed, had been an insane thing to do.

"You invaded Afghanistan."

The voice wove into John's thoughts, making him jump when he realized it had spoken aloud. Sherlock glanced up from his petri dish and smirked.

"Just a reminder."

"I _hate_ it when you do that," John growled, rubbing at his forehead with the sleeve of his jumper. "I swear, Sherlock, if I wasn't convinced you thought Legilimency was _boring_…"

"Enlighten me, John, what _could _be more boring than poking around your small, uninventive brain?"

"Don't pretend you can't do it, you twat."

Sherlock's hand stilled with the micropipette raised over the petri dish.

"I can," he admitted, so quietly John barely heard him.

"Right," said John, too triumphant to register the pause. "So, how do you expect me to believe…"

"You've spent the last five minutes gazing blankly at the screen of your laptop, which is currently opened to your blog, if your painfully sluggish typing earlier was anything to go by. That you were thinking about the latest case is an obvious assumption, but your left hand trembled briefly, as though recalling the unrelenting tedium of your life before I came along…"

"Hey," said John, mildly indignant. Sherlock steamrolled on.

"…seconds later, your hand curled into a fist and you smiled, but your eyes remained unfocused. Clearly a stroll down memory lane. Recalling what? The ceasing tremor in your hand indicates calm, lack of anxiety. You were remembering a time you felt at home. In this case, both your latent inability to function without adrenaline, and certain, if you'll pardon the description, _wolfish_ qualities about the smile…"

_"Sherlock."_

"…would indicate an adventure of some sort. Presumably involving myself or friends from your younger days. You've been staring at your blog, but without any hint of recognition, and although earlier you glanced at me periodically, you haven't done so within the past three minutes. Not one of our cases, then. The memory was enjoyable, but you cringed just now, so probably something from your school days, when you were younger and more stu—that is, prone to acts of recklessness. I was just reminding you that whatever your youthful folly, you've certainly done more insane things since…like invade Afghanistan."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, then tossed back the last of his tea, emerging with a small smile.

"I'm never going to get used to you, am I?"

"Prior experience would forecast the negative," murmured Sherlock as he turned back to his dish of bacteria, but John could have sworn he caught the hint of a smile on his face too.

* * *

><p>It remained a point of fact that at their first meeting, John had assumed Sherlock <em>was<em> using Legilimency. Sherlock still found that amusing, although he had to admit it was a twisted (if poorly applied) example of his own favorite axiom: _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ When confronted with Sherlock's deductive prowess, most Muggles either theorized that Sherlock was stalking them, or jumped directly to 'impossible'. John, by assuming otherwise, had shown his hand as a fellow magic-user. As though it weren't already painfully obvious.

He hadn't said anything at that first meeting. Not in front of Stamford. But (even more than curiosity) Sherlock had been counting on misplaced irritation at the supposed mental invasion to bring John to Baker Street the next evening. He was not disappointed. Although, with first Mrs. Hudson and then Lestrade twittering about, they had no real opportunity for conversation until the cab ride.

"About yesterday," John said, hunching into his jacket. "Don't ever do that again."

"Do what?" inquired Sherlock innocently.

John shot a look at the cabbie, who appeared reassuringly exhausted after a long day, and more or less deaf to what was being said behind him. "You know what."

"Pray enlighten me, Doctor."

_"There_," John snapped. _"That. _It's incredibly rude, not to mention downright _wrong_. The flat's nice, I'll grant you that, but if I'm going to have to learn bloody Occlumency just to keep my thoughts to myself, the answer's no."

Sherlock studied his potential flatmate. It would seem the doctor was even more sensitive to intrusions of privacy than he had judged. No real surprise there, of course, not considering…but it could pose a problem. Haircut, posture, mobile phone clearly well-used, though handled with an unfamiliar distaste…Sherlock could hardly help it that the data _leapt_ out at him.

Sensing the moment to make a few concessions, the taller man drew his wand from his coat and tapped it casually against his knee.

"For someone so queen-and-country, you're proving remarkably cavalier about the Statute of Secrecy." Sherlock dropped his voice. "I wasn't using Legilimency." An unfamiliar smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as John raised his eyebrows and lowered them again in disbelief.

"Prove it."

And Sherlock did. So thoroughly that John had trusted, ever since, that what appeared to be mind-reading consisted, quite simply, of startling deductive leaps. It was the truth—perhaps the _only_ certainty where his new flatmate was concerned—and a major reason that Sherlock took a malicious pleasure in smiling into the faces of police sergeants while invective like 'Freak' flew over his head. Sherlock Holmes would use magic for everything else, but never The Work.

The only times John's faith in this tenet wavered were when Sherlock read his mind without magic. It wasn't difficult, or even particularly interesting, for the detective to trace the thoughts flitting in their predictable pattern across his flatmate's face. But it had piqued a degree of curiosity about John's past, just enough that Sherlock had looked into it. _Not _using Legilimency.

John, too, carried memories he didn't talk about.

* * *

><p>More words came, in the months that followed. More talk about…well, life. Magic.<p>

After a few months it had become ridiculous, at least in John's mind, that he knew hardly anything about the man sitting across from him. Well, he knew _him, _Sherlock Holmes, his face and his moods and his preference for coffee, black, two sugars please. But he didn't know a thing about his past, didn't even think he'd heard the name 'Holmes' spoken in Wizarding Britain, which was odd as it tended to be a close-knit community. Muggle-born, perhaps: that would explain Sherlock's love of science. Or maybe a foreign family, though his polished public-school accent and Mycroft's excessive government involvement seemed to indicate otherwise.

Now John thought about it, there had always been _something_ familiar about his flatmate. Destiny, thought John, grinning, if nothing more explicable. Probably just seen him at Hogwarts once or twice…

"Stop thinking about me," floated Sherlock's voice from the sofa.

John cursed. "Stop _doing _that!"

"You're thinking. It's obvious. It's annoying. Also probably wrong. What do you want to know?"

"What makes you think I want to know anything?"

Sherlock stretched and rolled onto his side, eyes still closed. "Okay, you don't want to know anything."

John groaned and stalked to his armchair. There was a long pause in which Sherlock did a very good job of pretending to doze off, and John wasn't fooled.

"It's still true, you know, what I said that first day," he finally exhaled. "We've been chasing around these crime scenes for at least two months, tracking down murderers, bank robbers, Merlin knows what else…and we still don't know a thing about each other."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and John amended, "Okay, _I _don't know a thing about _you._"

"Absurd. You know many things about me. My address, for instance."

John chucked a cushion at his head. He hated it when Sherlock was deliberately obtuse. It was simply _wrong,_ a point of disturbance in the set way of things, rather as though Albus Dumbledore had come to him for Transfiguration help.

There was a slight "oof" as the cushion hit its mark and fell limply off Sherlock's face onto the floor. Sherlock heaved a sigh and levered himself unwillingly into a sitting position. Probably, John thought, so that his sarcasm wouldn't ricochet off the ceiling and hit anyone. "Is this your way of requesting the intimate details of my dark and mysterious past?" The baritone voice was laden with irony.

"What—no, nothing like that," said John hastily, recalling that memorable first night when they'd entered the flat to find it swarming with Scotland Yard's finest impromptu drug squad. "That's your business. I'm just curious about…well, a few things really. It's odd to be sharing a flat and not even know the most basic…" Sherlock's stare made John suddenly aware that he was rambling. "Like…where did you go to school?" he finished lamely.

Sherlock pushed himself up on one elbow, looking deeply disappointed. "Same place as you," he said scornfully. "_Obvious,_ John…"

"All right, all right, I was just making sure!" defended John, throwing his hands in the air. "I mean, I guessed that, all right, only Hogwarts has hundreds of students, and obviously we weren't in the same year…"

"Two years apart," Sherlock stated, lapsing back onto the protesting cushions as though already bored with the conversation.

"Okay. I don't think we ever met. Shame, really," said John.

"Mmm."

Well. Acquiescence would have been too much to ask for.

"You're a Ravenclaw, obviously."

Sherlock let out a snort and rolled over. "That's what everyone thinks. Except the bloody Sorting Hat," he mumbled into the cushion.

"So you're not…?" John shook his head, trying to reconcile this information with Sherlock's frankly terrifying intellect. Not to mention his usual attire: a blue scarf and long black coat that billowed around his youthful frame and irresistibly brought to mind images of school robes and house colors. "Then…"

"Slytherin, if you must know. Really John, I hardly think Hogwarts' particular brand of labeling is relevant here..."

"All right, all right, it's not as though I care!" John interjected, wondering what he had possibly said to make Sherlock so touchy. He paused. "Explains why we never met, anyway. I'm sure you've deduced me already, or d'you remember seeing me at Hogwarts…"

He paused when Sherlock said nothing. "_Do_ you remember me?"

There was silence. Then:

"No."

Sherlock made no further effort to break the silence, which elongated until John gave up, heading into the kitchen to make tea. It wasn't much, he thought, shaking his head as he set a mug _(two sugars)_ on the coffee table next to his flatmate, who had drifted into his own thoughts again and didn't seem to notice. Hardly a conversation. But it was a start.

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><p><strong>AN: Sherlock reading John's mind is totally ACD canon, for those of you who are wondering...**


	2. Chapter 2

John remembered the occasion, much later. It had been the smallest of moments, after a particularly insightful series of deductions on Sherlock's part led to the arrests of a high-profile gang of smugglers. This group had been posing as a gentleman's club in one of London's finer neighborhoods. It was one of the 'ongoing' cases, requiring a certain subtlety in pursuit, and Sherlock had been on the trail for several months. Earlier that day he had made the final connection ("…one of those petals was from an _Albertine,_ John, slightly different strain, _how_ could I not have seen it?") It was a good day for official members of the force and irregulars alike, and the Yarders were noticeably gleeful as they made the arrests.

Ordinarily, Lestrade was scrupulously careful about not "feeding Sherlock's already overlarge ego," as he put it. John attributed the lapse to elation and waning adrenaline.

On this particular evening, the silver-haired detective inspector oversaw the arrests, and then found himself staring at Sherlock as the last of the gang was escorted away in a police car. He was turning away when the words poured unbidden from his mouth.

"I am so bloody glad you're on our side."

Sherlock had been scanning the side of a rather ostentatious brick building, no doubt updating his mental map of London, but his eyes snapped immediately to Lestrade's face. In the pause John could imagine what was coming, was already envisioning the tilt of the eyebrows and the arrogance bleeding through the posh tone as Sherlock replied "Count your blessings" or "You should be" or something much wittier in the same vein. By the look on his face, Lestrade knew it too.

The actual reply was the last thing either of them was expecting.

"So am I," Sherlock murmured, almost to himself, and then he spun on his heel and strode across the darkening street to hail a cab.

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><p>John didn't ask until they were halfway home.<p>

Sherlock had been in a strangely pensive mood ever since they left the crime scene. He had instructed the cabbie to wait for John, at least, which the doctor supposed was something, although by the time John slid into the leather interior Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently on the window. This was a habit of his, one John recognized as a flare of unspoken yearning for his violin, and nearly always meant that John wouldn't get another word out of his flatmate that night. Sure enough, Sherlock turned up his coat collar and his nose at John's halfhearted attempts at conversation, preferring to spend the ride in meditative silence. His eyes, locked on the window, roved freely over the darkening streets. Probably tracing out the life stories of every pedestrian who passed.

John frowned. These moods were hardly uncommon—Sherlock had, after all, warned him from the start. _Sometimes I don't talk for days on end._

But…

But not like this. Never after a case.

The brief interval following a successful case was the only time John ever knew his friend to genuinely relax. It didn't last long, of course; by the next morning the detective was always champing at the bit for a new distraction to come along—but the journeys home were lighthearted, almost jovial, usually culminating in an evening of takeout and (at John's insistence) Muggle movies, and even (on one memorable occasion) a pillow fight. All in all it was a far cry from this pin-drop quiet that even the cabbie didn't dare to break.

So John wasn't quite sure what made him say it.

"What was that about?"

He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. John knew perfectly well that there was no communicating with Sherlock in this mood. But Sherlock surprised him for the second time that night. He didn't seem irritated. Just…thoughtful.

"Mmm?"

John decided to press his advantage.

"That…what you said just now. To Lestrade."

The detective had been gazing out the window with a slight furrow in his brow, still as stone. He appeared, in fact, not so much a living human as something carved out of marble (not unlike the bust of Pericles beneath which John had more than once narrowly escaped being smashed by Peeves.) Amazingly, however, Sherlock roused himself properly at John's words and went so far as to turn his head, eyelids fluttering in the way that they did whenever he suppressed a sigh.

"Nothing. It was nothing. Forget it."

"It's not a big deal, Sherlock," said John as gently as he could, badly failing to mask his bewilderment. "I'm just…curious, is all. Seems like an odd thing to say."

John had given up by the time Sherlock spoke again.

"Not really."

"Er…How d'you mean?"

"I mean he has a point. Lestrade. Sally too, I suppose." Sherlock's fingers beat an unconscious rhythm against the window again.

"I am a sociopath. It's not…inconceivable that I could have gone the other way."

It was John's turn to sit, stunned into silence. At what, he didn't know. Sherlock's candor, perhaps. The fact that he had given this any thought. The fact that he _cared. _

It shouldn't have surprised him, reflected John, it really_, really_ shouldn't_,_ that Sherlock was aware of what was said behind his back. John had even repeated a bit to him, that first night.

_"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."_

Sherlock had deflected the accusation without refuting it, and they never revisited the conversation. But Sally had said other things, too. Things John hadn't repeated. Now he wondered why it surprised him that Sherlock knew them anyway.

Sherlock's attention had wandered back to the window by the time John quietly said the three words burning on his tongue.

"Yes, it is."

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><p><strong>AN: Apologies for the short chapter, it was a good stopping place. However, I will be posting regularly...super regularly. I have much of this story written. **


	3. Chapter 3

John's reasoning was simple. It didn't take any measure of genius to figure out that someone with no prospects in his own world was better off finding another. The worst thing was that John was exactly the sort of person who _should _have succeeded anywhere. Healer. Auror. Ministry official. Professor, even. With his steady mind, easy manner around people, and profound magical ability, John Watson—no, let's be frank, _Remus Lupin_—should have found success wherever he looked for it.

But almost thirty years ago, a wolf had gone looking for a midnight snack.

That, and the combined disgust of several thousand wand-wielding, empathy-lacking ignoramuses (as John labeled them in his less tolerant moments), had made him a pariah. An outcast. Because _who_ you were didn't matter nearly as much as _what_ you were.

That was wizards for you.

Sherlock was more of an enigma. There was a reason, _had_ to be a reason why a man so acutely in love with his own magical prowess chose to spend his life in a cluttered little flat in Muggle London. Not that Sherlock held any contempt for the non-magical society as a whole—far from it. He was entranced, in fact, with Muggle technology and scientific advances.

"Look, John," he would say excitedly, shoving a disemboweled circuitboard or an article full of scientific mumbo-jumbo under John's nose. "Just _look_ what people can accomplish without magic. With their _brains._ Far be it from me to suggest that those two things rarely go hand in hand, but—"

"Go on," John would reply in amusement, pretending to study whatever it was that Sherlock had shown him. "I haven't been privy to your humble opinions regarding Wizarding society in a while."

Sherlock didn't hear him. He was striding imperiously around the room, gesticulating wildly and impatiently; he could have been addressing the curtains, except that he threw in John's name every now and again.

"It's _blindness_, John. Deliberate blindness. We're so busy congratulating ourselves on achieving exactly the same things our ancestors have done for thousands of years that we don't recognize _real_ progress when we see it—it's enough to drive any rational being mad…"

No, what Sherlock harbored was contempt for _humanity_, with a few exceptions. He didn't seem to care in the slightest whether or not a person was magically endowed. So long as that person put forth the effort to use his or her brain once in a while. (When it came to respect, that narrowed the field quite a bit.) But it still didn't explain why Sherlock Holmes spent his days consulting with New Scotland Yard when he could easily have been heading the Ministry's Auror office: tracking down magical criminals, engaging in proper duels, investigating potentially more interesting crimes. John could only assume, given his attitude toward Mycroft (Mycroft: another enigma, if ever there was one—) that Sherlock simply despised the establishment.

John supposed he could relate. Icy anger flooded the pit of his stomach, his fist clenching involuntarily as he caught the headline of today's _Daily Prophet _resting on the coffee table: yet _another _piece of anti-werewolf legislation had pushed through the Wizengamot. He made his way up the stairs to his room, seething.

Yes, the Ministry of Magic had a not-altogether-undeserved reputation for monumental stupidity. It also frowned on experimental magic. Those reasons, or similar, could easily explain Sherlock's isolation. ("_Progress, _John!") At any rate, neither man had found need to visit Diagon Alley during the months they'd lived together. Thrilling though he had once found the place, John's stomach twisted at the very thought of setting foot there again. And Sherlock simply ordered all of his potions ingredients by owl.

Baker Street was a bubble, John sometimes reflected, a fragile, filmy balance clinging to two membranes that never quite touched.

His thoughts interrupted by a loud _bang_, John hurtled downstairs to the sight of several hundred scraps of charred paper drifting through the air in a macabre mockery of confetti. John ducked beneath a cloud of smoke and caught at one of the snippets. He scowled again at the headline as a black-tinted glow ate away its edges.

John dropped the fragment and coughed his way toward the tall figure in the middle of the haze. "Sherlock? You all right?"

"Experiment," Sherlock said innocently, twirling his wand in one hand.

John dropped the scrap of _Daily Prophet _to the carpet as the names of several leading politicians smoldered away. Sometimes, he thought, you had to wonder who the real sociopaths were.

* * *

><p>There was something odd about the Freak and his friend. Beyond the obvious, she meant.<p>

Only maybe the Freak was right about her colleagues, thought Sally. Because they _never_ seemed to notice anything. She rolled her eyes as a group of forensic analysts trooped off toward the lunchroom, stripping off their latex gloves. Only Philip remained, slowly pulling his jacket out of his locker. Sally felt a smile twitch at the corners of her mouth. He'd stayed behind for her. Of course he had.

"So, how'd it go?" he asked, tugging on his gloves. Sally didn't blame him; it was barely autumn, but already there was an unnatural chill in the air.

"How'd…oh." It took only a moment to realize that he meant the wrap-up of the Steinfield-Jones case. It had ended last night in the usual melodramatic fashion, with Watson and Holmes (or, as Sally preferred to think of them, Jekyll and Hyde) haring off after the culprit and bringing him to justice slightly less than intact. Effective, Sally admitted sourly, but it always meant a heck of a lot of paperwork for those who _weren't_ above that sort of thing. Police sergeants for instance.

"The usual," she sighed in answer to Phil's question. They fell into step in the hallway, heading toward the elevator. "Greg yelled a bit, Freak made the usual snarky comments, Watson stepped in once or twice, mostly just waited it out. You think he'd have been on Greg's side, since Holmes actually got himself injured this time—"

"Most of us 'idiots' know better than to go hand-to-hand with a drugged-up mugger," Anderson commented under his breath.

"Took a knife to the leg, pretty shallow, I heard them talking last night," Sally went on. "Freak acted like it was no big deal, of course. Wouldn't even let Greg check the cut this morning. I don't care how high his IQ is, he's a walking bureaucratic time bomb."

"That's not all he is," Anderson growled, but Sally squeezed his hand to quiet him. Any verbal abuse toward the Freak was abuse well-deserved, but it was a foggy autumn day, and they were headed toward her favorite coffee shop, and the last thing she wanted to do was spend her lunch break talking about an arrogant twat in a long coat.

One thing was _really _bothering her, however, and they hadn't gone two blocks before she found herself voicing it.

"Phil," she said quietly, "There's something going on with those two. Something weird. Not like _that,_" she hurried on, as he snorted. "I mean, maybe, but I don't care about that. It's something else. I heard them talking, last night. When Watson was bandaging the Freak's knee."

Philip twined his arm in hers. "What did they say?" he asked, interested in spite of himself.

"It was…sort of odd, really. Maybe it's nothing," she rushed on, suddenly doubtful. "But Watson…he said 'I'll take another look at this when we get home'. Which is normal enough, except he'd already cleaned and bandaged the cut, so what else was there to do? And then the Freak said, 'Oh, are you a healer now, as well as a doctor?'"

Anderson raised his eyebrows at her. "Is that it?"

"Yeah, s'pose so. Watson snorted and told him to shut up. I know it's not much, but…isn't that enough?" she argued, suddenly defensive. "Why would the king of bloody grammar Nazis say something so redundant? Or to use his favorite word, _obvious._"

"Shock?" Philip suggested, after a moment.

Sally snorted. "Holmes? Are you serious?"

"No."

"Then answer me for real. Why would he say something so…stupid?"

"Maybe he's not always as clever as he'd like us to think," muttered Anderson. "Or maybe it's…I dunno. Some kind of joke between them. Like you said, birds of a feather…"

"No, _you_ said that. _I _was the one who said Watson was too normal to be chasing around after the Freak."

"Only because you fancied him."

"Shut up." Sally shoved him lightly. Like _he _was one to talk about crushes. At least the divorce was over with, she thought guiltily, eying the spot on Philip's ring finger where the bump of a wedding band no longer showed through his leather gloves.

"At any rate, you were wrong."

"Was I ever," she agreed, brushing a stray wisp of hair from her face. "The scary thing is how well he _fakes _it. At least with Holmes you know what to watch out for."

"We've agreed they're both freaks," said Phil companionably. "Is there anything more to say?"

"Just that…there's something going on. With both of them. Little things that don't add up. I mean, they've got their secret little language and all…" she trailed off. Maybe Anderson was right, maybe she _was_ reading too much into this. Was anything really surprising when it came to Sherlock Holmes?

"I'm going to keep an extra eye out, is all," she finished firmly.

Philip pulled her close and planted a kiss on top of her head. "I can't think of a better detective for the job."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ****Remus/John was an idea I came up with independently, though I have since started following The Jumper Chronicles by HermioneGirl96. It's quite good, I recommend it if you're hungry for a little more werewolf John. **

**Did you notice my cover art? Just a quick sketch, but as it was my first real try on a drawing pad I was quite pleased. **

**Also, I couldn't resist a little inquisitive Sally. She's sharper than we give her credit for...or is she?**


	4. Chapter 4

It was many months before John thought back to that quiet, post-case cab conversation. And many months before Sally got her next clue.

Over the past year, Sherlock and John had developed a number of systems to facilitate living together, or, as John put it, to "lengthen the life expectancy of the world's only consulting idiot". These included the no-violin-before-four-in-the-morning rule (they were still working on that one), as well as a standing agreement not to brew lethal compounds in any of the blue-patterned mugs. Additionally, Sherlock was never to attempt to drag John on cases during the full moon, and John had learned not to secure his laptop with any password that took the world's most advanced cryptographers less than two days to crack. (Mycroft had proved most helpful on this point). The most important of these, however, was the It's Okay To Stun A Bad Guy If The Alternative Is A Painful Death rule.

"For us or the bad guy?" Sherlock had inquired innocently, ducking to dodge John's left cross.

Ordinarily it was John who leapt in when hand-to-hand struggling with a suspect became necessary; not because Sherlock was any less accomplished in the martial arts, but because he knew a wider variety of hexes and could cast them all silently. On the rare occasions when the use of magic became necessary, Sherlock always arranged things subtly enough to be chalked up to chance. It was odd how the occasional armed assailant just _happened_ to fall unconscious from what a sideline observer would have judged only a glancing blow; equally odd how many two-story falls the detective and his consulting doctor walked away from without so much as a twisted ankle. More severe injuries seemed to heal themselves, if not overnight (they were rarely _that_ careless), at least with considerably more rapidity than was enjoyed by anyone else outside of _Doctor Who_.

"You two have the luck of the devil," Lestrade commented once, looking unsettled as Sherlock brushed himself off after the latest string of burglaries (lately resolved in a rooftop pursuit and a dive into an alley). "Anyone else would be half-dead from that fall, but it's as if you landed on cotton!"

"Just trying to save Sally the paperwork," Sherlock had replied carelessly. "And they say I'm inconsiderate."

John privately thought that Mycroft would never let his brother live it down if they ever had to call in a squad of Obliviators. They were on shaky legal ground, anyway, consulting with Muggle police. It was best to keep a low profile.

After the first few close calls, however, John insisted that while it was all very well to track criminals down without the benefit of magic, violently apprehending them without at least having a wand close to hand bordered on lunacy. Sherlock reluctantly acquiesced, and so their current system had developed. Front line and reinforcements. Even Sherlock had to admit it was reassuring to have backup in the form of a steady wand at his back.

Particularly when in hand-to-hand combat with a knife-wielding murderer.

Again.

"No gun, John," Sherlock had had time to spit out as the chase began. This particular criminal—Sebastian Moran was his name, though Sherlock suspected it was an alias—had left more than a string of bodies in his wake. He'd left information. It was in the pattern of blood spatters, it was in the number and depth of wounds in the body, it was in the geometric arrangement of rigor-mortis-stiffened limbs. A string of digits visible to only one man. And that man was very interested in finding out why.

Whenever Sherlock was after information, John's gun was a variable presenting a risk they could not take. Which was the reason the detective (better trained in nonlethal combat) was the one leaping into this fray. John not far behind, had reason to be grateful for the established magic rule, though he knew Sherlock preferred not to resort to that. Not with this man. Not with this (if his suspicions proved correct) organization. There was too much at risk.

Ahead of him Sherlock twisted, sidestepping, left hand snaking forward to lock Moran's wrist and force him to drop the knife. Moran saw it coming and stumbled back, inadvertently drawing further into the tight alleyway. In doing so, his knife hand drew back. Quickly, not cleanly. Sherlock felt the blade catch on his sleeve, felt a sharp pain and the trickle of warm blood down his forearm, and then his right hook connected with Moran's jaw and the man fell to the ground.

Sherlock turned away, fumbling for his wand as John rushed forward. He had already verified Moran's unconscious state, but the distraction was welcome, giving the detective time to inspect his own wound as John checked the man's pulse. Sherlock grimaced at what he saw. The cut, though it hadn't hit any major arteries, was a deep, jagged slice just below his wrist, blossoming scarlet blood with every beat of his heart. Inside his coat, Sherlock's fingers closed over the polished handle of his wand. He couldn't Heal injuries as cleanly as John could, not without dittany, but that hardly mattered, he had to stop the bleeding _now,_ before John noticed…

"Sherlock! John!"

Correction. Before John or Lestrade noticed.

Sherlock cursed quietly as Lestrade's footsteps rang against the concrete behind him. Lestrade's presence meant magic was out of the question, or he'd never hear the end of it from Mycroft. He tore off his scarf and looped it around his wrist—not tightly enough to cut off the blood flow, but hopefully enough to staunch it until he got back to the flat.

Another voice came from behind.

"Freak? You all right?"

"Perfectly," said Sherlock distractedly, dragging his coat sleeve down over his scarf-wrapped wrist and ignoring the fresh pain that pulsed through his arm. Pushing both hands into his pockets, he turned to Donovan.

"Scotland Yard is as hot on our heels as ever, I see."

Sally scowled as she watched Lestrade clamp a pair of handcuffs onto Moran's unresisting form. "You want backup, then let us know _before_ sprinting off, Freak. Where's your assistant, then?"

"Behind you," came John's mild voice. "And for the record, I resent that."

Sherlock turned his head slightly to hide his smile. Really, it was worth keeping John around just for the new dimension he added to verbal skirmishes with the Yarders. Despite his mediocre brainpower, John had his own sort of wit—not that Sherlock would have admitted it aloud.

Any more than he would ever voice the raw, panicky feeling _(feeling!)_ that shot through him at the thought of…

Well. It didn't bear thinking about. Hence the scarf.

Which was staying there until Sherlock found a way to distance himself from the growing throng of Muggles. Even in the best of circumstances, _people_ were something he could only take in small doses. And these were hardly the best of circumstances.

Sherlock shut his eyes against a wave of red-and-blue lights and grimaced at his building headache. Time to be gone.

"Sherlock, mate? You sure you're all right?"

Sherlock opened his eyes in time to catch a glimpse of Sally's trademark, disbelieving _how-can-someone-so-normal-care-so-much-about-a-sociopathic-freak_ expression. Despite the inherent betrayal to John, Sherlock found himself sorely tempted to invite her to tea during the full moon.

To be fair, the whole bloodthirsty rage-monster thing was one of John's more interesting personality flaws.

"Fine," answered Sherlock in belated response to John's concern. "Headache."

"Headache." John didn't look convinced. He himself was probably high as a kite on adrenaline.

"Yes, John. I'm sure the sirens and flashing lights haven't escaped you. Our friends here are trying to compensate, I imagine."

"Oi!" Lestrade had returned from escorting Moran to the car soon enough to catch the end of the conversation. "For what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Need you ask? I'm long since resigned to the realization that actual detective work is beyond you, but lately I practically have to do the arrests as well."

Lestrade clenched his jaw. "Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. I have a solution. Don't."

"Your arrest record might make its objections known." _Enough dawdling. Walk away._

Sherlock turned, conscious that he was neglecting to turn up his coat collar. Unlikely they'd notice. "Anyway, I'll need to speak with Moran when he regains consciousness. First thing in the—_what are you doing?_"

"Listen, Holmes," Lestrade tightened his grip on Sherlock's sleeve and stepped firmly into his path, blocking his way. "I have _other records_ to worry about. Specifically the one where I'll be listing _your_ name when you turn up dead of a bullet wound or—"

"Relax, Gavin," Sherlock snapped, trying not to wince as he tore his arm free from Lestrade's iron grip. Underneath, he felt the makeshift bandage slip, the cut bleeding freely again. _T__ime to be gone._ Bluster on, then, with a little more venom injected: "Even you can deduce that we're both perfectly _fine_."

"It's Greg!" bellowed Lestrade, silver hair bristling. "Keep taking stupid risks and your luck will run out, Sherlock, it always does, I've lost some good mates that way—and that goes for you too, Watson!"

"Greg, I'm on your side on this, but I had him covered!" John said heatedly.

Lestrade took a step toward him. "You think taking off after him—you think having _two_ civilians in danger—"

"And what if I don't?" John was losing his temper now, flickering visibly between snapping point and dangerous calm. "D'you think he'll sit still and be a good boy and wait for you to bring them in?"

"I think I'd rather not find myself standing over either of your corpses—"

People were so strange, Sherlock thought fuzzily through his building migraine. Why this? Why now? Lestrade had been short-tempered lately, certainly, but how long had this outburst been building up and _why_ did people always feel the need to let. It. Out.

Merlin, his head hurt. Irrelevant as Lestrade's opinions might be, his yells were filtering into Sherlock's mind palace, banging and echoing around the corridors with the clamor of steel on stone. The back-and-forth calls of the Yarders, frantic notes barely restrained by professionalism, mingled with the slam of car doors in the background.

Lights. Noise. How he had always hated them.

Bleeding. Also painful. More problematic. Plenty of practice hiding pain...

…but it was a lot harder to hide the blood.

Need to get home. Baker Street. Now.

_If inconvenient, go anyway,_ the ache in his head instructed, and Sherlock's feet pivoted around Lestrade to obey…and struck against something cold and metallic that sent a clanging echo through the alley.

He closed his eyes. Of course. Some detective inspector.

Relative silence fell as Lestrade, Sally, and John turned to look. Sherlock simply kept walking. He didn't get far.

"Sherlock!" Greg's voice rang out sharply, yet again. Sherlock let out a hissing sigh. Without turning, he weighed how far he could push Lestrade before he was suspended from cases. It had happened before, and he knew from experience that the detective inspector would not relent for several weeks. His skin crawled at the thought. That outcome, though only marginally more tolerable than the other, was at least temporary. It was starting to look as though one of them was inevitable.

_On the other hand, John might…_

No.

"What is this?"

Sherlock's feet had paused while he deliberated. At Lestrade's tone he turned automatically to look, although he needn't have. The thing Lestrade was holding had a long, serrated steel blade and a leather grip, and was intimately acquainted with the taste of Sherlock's blood.

"It appears to be yet another proclamation of Scotland Yard's failure," snarled Sherlock, heart pounding along the slice in his arm. "It's hardly _my_ job to conduct forensic cleanup for you. Since I'm leaving, I suggest you call in Anderson. Even he must be good for _something,_ and at this point the field is so narrow that probabilistically speaking…"

Sherlock met Lestrade's glare, determined not to notice the slowly tightening muscle in the jaw of John Watson, who stood beside him, radiating something that felt like the deeply dangerous calm before the storm. "Right," huffed Lestrade at last. "I'll do that, shall I? Tell him to run a DNA analysis on this blood."

"Looks a couple of hours old," lied Sherlock calmly. "Likely a match to that unidentified corpse Moran left in the…"

"I'm a bloody detective inspector, Sherlock, I think 'even Scotland Yard' recognizes _fresh blood_ when it's dripping off a knife. I might even take another step and deduce who it belongs to—"

John's voice, taut as a wire, snapped through Lestrade's irate reply.

"Sherlock. Come here. Now."

Sherlock steeled himself against an involuntary urge to step back. "No."

"Why not?"

"Keep up, both of you," he snapped. "I solved the case. I caught your murderer. I have a migraine. I'm going home." He turned.

John's military tenor suddenly acquired its very occasional, very unwelcome tone of canny realization. "Sherlock, where's your scarf?"

He kept walking.

"Sherlock!" John lunged forward and seized his shoulder. The momentum forced Sherlock to face him, stumbling slightly as he pulled away.

"For _Merlin's sake,_" Sherlock hissed under his breath, oblivious to Lestrade, looming nearby, and Sally, wide-eyed and silent in the background. "If you two would quit manhandling my clothing, I would be extremely appreciative!"

It was a testament to the situation's tension that John didn't even pause to point out how wrong that sounded. "Take off your coat," he ordered.

"No."

"Take it _off,_ you idiot, I don't want to hurt you any more than you already…oh, _Merlin,_" John drew in a breath through his teeth, catching a glimpse of blue wool as the makeshift bandage slipped further down Sherlock's wrist. "That could be incredibly serious, Sherlock, let me see…"

"It's not serious," Sherlock insisted. When John reached gently for his arm, he backed away, knowing it was futile. John wouldn't leave him alone. John was a doctor, and kind and open-hearted, and utterly, stupidly incapable of understanding when his help was not wanted.

A friend. That's the kind of person John was. And friends (Sherlock told his pounding heart, wishing he had more data to back it up), friends could get angry. Over small things. They could infuriate each other and still somehow _stay_ friends.

So he chose his words with care and fired them, one by one, like bullets.

"I can heal it myself," Sherlock snarled, jerking his arm away from John, heedless of the unraveling material. "Let me spell it out. I. Don't. Need. You."

[Not bullets. Stun grenade. Nothing permanent.]

John stopped short, raised his head, and there was a flash of moonlight on his skin and something raw and hurt in his eyes, and he shut his mouth and clenched his fists and Sherlock thought he had won.

And then his arm was caught in John's iron grip while another hand wrenched his sleeve up, and the waves of blue wool fell away to reveal a rusty stain blurring across tortured, twisting lines of black ink…

And Sherlock, speechless for once, looked up at exactly the wrong second and saw it. The moment John Watson stopped caring.


	5. Chapter 5

_ All lives end, all hearts are broken, and caring is not an advantage._

_ You knew this was coming, little brother._

[A flurry of facts, figures and rhetorical questions, coalescing into one icy realization. Absurdly impossible, even now, to stop the flood of observation, information, and so you know the answer, down to the last millisecond.]

How long does it take for disbelief to harden into something else?

Not long enough.

.

..

...

..

.

"John."

It wasn't much, but it was there. A quiet, choking syllable.

"John."

It gasped for air and suffocated in the unrelenting drone of late-night London traffic. And then it died into silence, because John had dropped his arm and disappeared into the shadows and he was not coming back.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Freak,"_ Sally mouthed as he pushed past her. "What've you done this time?"

The words were barely audible. Sherlock heard them anyway, and didn't pause. Words had lost their power.

"I need to be there for the interview, Lestrade." The words were thrown over his shoulder, flat and colorless, the exact tones of a sociopath who has cut loose a trailing thread from his coat. "Text me in the morning."

And he was gone, leaving a blacker patch of darkness behind him. The cab's tires hummed their way into the tapestry of London traffic, and his headache slowly leaked into the petrol stains on the pavement.

_Home. 221B Baker Street. If convenient._

_ Could be dangerous._

Sherlock sat up all night and watched himself bleed.

* * *

><p>Perhaps there is no sharing in something so [not perfect, never perfect, because if you let yourself lie about <em>him<em> then it would be like everything else] crystal-cut flawed, and breaking it off, without leaving the jagged edges standing in your memory.

At any rate, they both lived in that moment a long time.

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_.._

_..._

_~A slightly reassuring glimpse into the future~_

"I didn't think you were coming back."

"I didn't think I was either."

...

[Impossible to promise a happy ending. Not here, not in the middle of the story. Possibly can't promise one at all. But if that's what you're looking for, if all you seek is some redeeming measure of sentimental banality, here is what I can offer.]

They lived in that moment too.


	7. Chapter 7

John lived through two full moons without Sherlock, and in that benumbed time [wrong word, stupid, pointless to suppose you can't exist without him, you always did before], the Wolfsbane Potion became more important than ever before.

Not for John. Or, well, it _could _have been, it _should_ have been (Sherlock had researched the pain of transforming, had stretched his limited perception of sentiment for the imagined lack of control, the heart-stopping guilt at the possibility of killing something innocent and human, and knew it better than any other non-werewolf in the world)—but John did not come back. The moon's phases should have been deleted then, banished back where they belonged in the half-deleted abyss of old Astronomy knowledge.

But the potion was for Sherlock, much as he told himself it was _John's_, John's in the same way that tea and ridiculous fluffy jumpers and tedious, overtalkative girlfriends were John's. The potion meant John's presence, so Sherlock continued to brew it. Mugs of congealing concoction crowded the coffee table until, in a feverish moment of deluded logic, some wayward segment of his brain imagined that the Wolfsbane—_wolf's bane—_kept him away. So he emptied them down the drain (muddy potion and slivers of porcelain) until he regained his senses and started the next month anew. John did not come.

Sentiment was for idiots and children. Sherlock kept his confined to a bubbling cauldron and an overcrowded coffee table. It wouldn't do to let it spill over, to let the lack of John spiral out and shatter both his life and increasingly fragile mind palace to the laughable piles of shards they were. So Sherlock got up (if not every morning, then most) and dressed (when he could be bothered) and ate Mrs. Hudson's strategically placed meals and only talked to thin air when Lestrade wasn't there to hear.

Lestrade didn't hear much, actually. Sherlock materialized at crime scenes with his usual barriers in place, dropped his comments on the scene through the blur of whatever everyone else was saying, and left before the D.I.'s thanks broke through the haze. Once he turned a corner and Apparated home, recklessly, propelled by the sudden, mad possibility that John might be there.

Deflated possibility always spiraled into a protracted argument with himself.

_Stupid. Illogical. John 'might' be anywhere._

You could track him down. Apparition notwithstanding.

_He's a werewolf. He'll lie low. He hates me._

You could do it. Hogsmeade. Diagon Alley. Everyone leaves traces.

_I could also spend the rest of my life in Azkaban. Or be torn apart by an angry mob._

You don't care.

_True._

Go and do it, then. Disguise yourself. Finally something _resembling_ a real challenge.

_No._

Why not?

_It's John's choice. John's. And he hates me._

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_.._

_..._

John moped.

It was incredibly pathetic. He knew it, and he hated himself a little bit for it, but he hated Sherlock more.

Taken in again. By another _bloody_ so-called fri—no, by a _Death Eater_. It was as though fate had a sick sense of humor—or worse, justice—and the blade that dug into him when he thought of his own small part in Lily and James' deaths twisted a little deeper.

Because looking back, (impossible to avoid, these days) he should have insisted, should have _known…_surely there was something in _his_ eyes, an alteration in his face, hesitation in his laugh. Some part of that shadow must have mirrored Black's movements. Sherlock's had. Sherlock's always had, but John had thought _(fool, idiot, incompetent) _that that was just _Sherlock._

Don't say the name.

Or maybe—and wasn't this the more terrifying possibility, because what was the suspected shadow of another compared to John's own, certain one? Had he been a bit relieved, perhaps, not to be chosen? Elated, even, to be spared confessing what he feared most: being forced to entrust his friends, the world's most precious Secret, to the wolf? And so he had given over the responsibility of Secret-Keeper with no thought at all, certainly not a particle of suspicion…

John had been taught the depth of his own loyalty, and it was not a lion's. It was that of a dog.

What was he good for? Adoration, for one. Certainly that was what Holmes had used him for; how many times had John trotted along behind him, wide-eyed and eager, into a maelstrom of danger? Adoration and trust—which, blindly given as it had been, was no real bond at all. Had Holmes shrugged him off yet, gone back to his life of intrigue and machinations, and, for all John knew, murder?

What else did Remus John Lupin have to offer? Protection, he had always thought.

_You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor._

John had spent his youth between the throes of a disintegrating Wizarding society and his own "furry little problem". Somewhere amid loss and personal pain and growing up with a foot in two war zones he had seized upon a modest but impossible goal. To be a…safe person. Set himself as completely apart from the monster as he could, even if he was the only one who knew or cared. Healing, protection at least, _those_ were things he had thought he could provide. He had been wrong again.

If protection was what he offered, it was on no meaningful level. Certainly he had saved lives, first at Bart's, then the war, quietly Healing where Muggle medicine wasn't enough. But how many comrades had John watched blown to bits in Afghanistan, and he a wizard, unable to save them in time? How gladly would he have offered himself as Secret-Keeper, if he were not afraid of the howls that might escape beneath a full moon's glare? How many times had he been quietly sought out, invitations whispered in his ear, and felt that ever-growing tug of longing toward those who understood the inhuman instincts that thickened in his blood with the moon's waxing?

_Maybe you have more of a dark side than you think_, sniped the little voice that seemed to have taken Sher—_Holmes'_ place in his life because it never. Shut. Up. Hadn't for the past two months.

Ella would probably have something to say about that.

John really didn't care.

Because he deserved it. All of it. It was obvious now. He'd always enjoyed being one of the clever ones. Not as cocky as James, perhaps, and never as arrogant or careless as Black, (that was one good thing, John congratulated himself grimly, something had iced over inside him that night, and at least now he could think of _Black _with the hatred that both of them deserved)…but in his own way, John had always been just as bad as Sh—as his ex-flatmate. From the beginning he had understood the Death Eater far better than he cared to admit. John knew what it was to be infatuated with his own cleverness, too bloody obsessed to care about the risk he was inflicting on his friends and fellow students. Or at least, Remus did.

And John knew too, didn't he? Wasn't that part of the draw? The thrill of the chase, adrenaline, yes, but so much more than that. It was being part of something exclusive, adventurous, _better _than the rest of them. Above the law. Stepping over police tape, undermining Mycroft's most carefully laid plans, waving aside Muggle and Ministry laws alike because he was doing something _real,_ something more _important_. Looking down on them all—Dumbledore and his rules, the other students, Scotland Yard. "Idiots," Sher—_he_ had declared them, with a dismissive wave of his hand. And John hadn't argued.

Because what did it matter, what did any of it matter, when there was the thrill of a chase and the full moon shining, _singing_ overhead and in his veins, the pain of it fading away into intoxication, night-air drunkenness, and what if blood seeped from beneath a closed door, when you were wrapped in triumph and orange fleece and giggling at a crime scene?

Remus had learned what it meant to trust too much. And now John had too.

* * *

><p><em>Merlin, this is ridiculous. You lived without him, before. <em>

Define 'lived'.

_Shut up._


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry about the short chapters-thought I'd post three at once so as not to short-change y'all. Might be less angsty from here on out. Maybe.**

**If the format/experimental style of the previous chapters annoys anyone, let me know and I'll file that away in my mind palace. If you think it's effective, leave a review. Feedback is an author's lifeblood.**

* * *

><p>"Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself!"<p>

The shrill voice ringing through the crowded shop would have made John smile at any other time. Bossy and impetuous, it reminded him a bit of Harry. Not James's Harry; John's sister Harry, who (back in the old days, before her life began tracing an ever-tighter orbit between the Hog's Head and the Leaky Cauldron) could be counted upon to take up any cause worth defending and fight through to the bitter end. Their parents had been the same—the Lupin clan were all Gryffindors, through and through. Probably the reason only half of them had survived the war.

_Not like we were the only ones,_ John reminded himself for the umpteenth time. _And we were old enough to deal with the loss. _His thoughts drifted to Harry again and he sighed. _Sort of._

She had been much closer to their parents than he had. There were probably a multitude of reasons for this, but when it came right down to it, John was certain that his father's guilt over his son's lycanthropy—_and that bloody article—_was at the heart. Hard to be close when your parents only half want you around. And he'd been at Hogwarts up until the last months before their deaths anyway.

Thoughts of this nature inevitably spiraled into recollections of the war, (or worse yet, musings over how useless he was to the _other_ Harry), so John increased his pace and shoved through the crowd, anxious to be out the door before these glum thoughts overtook him. There were better places to be. The Leaky Cauldron, for instance. _Merlin, I really am turning into her._

Perhaps it was too much time spent with Sher—John's thoughts whirled before hastily settling on _that bloody traitor_—but John could have sworn he felt the shift in the crowd almost before it occurred. Like a collective intake of breath before the surge toward the back of the shop. It only took a few seconds for the sounds of fists and grunts to reach his ears through the crowd's excited chatter, and John understood. Some idiot had decided it was a good idea to start a fight in Flourish and Blotts—probably over some autobiography signed by that tosser Lockhart. By the sound of it, though, the fighters were blokes. Odd, but John really didn't care; he'd been in this stifling shop long enough. Let some other witless do-gooder break it up.

_Air, I need air._

Feeling rather like a salmon swimming upstream, John forced a path back to the front of the shop and at last into the relative openness of the wide alleyway. The air was thankfully cool, a welcome autumn breeze playing across his face while the sun blazed in the blueness overhead with slightly offensive cheeriness. After the choking warmth of the shop, John was contemplating tugging off his jumper when he recalled, with a sigh, that he was blending in. Long, patched brown wizarding robes, dug up in the first secondhand clothing shop he'd come across. He'd grown rather accustomed to Muggle clothing in the past few years. Truth be told, he even preferred it, but Muggle London had become somehow even more unbearable than the press of crowds in Diagon Alley.

John wasn't really sure why he'd ventured into Flourish and Blotts. A good read would be nice, in the unlikely event it could take his mind off things, but heaven knew his finances weren't in good enough shape for their sky-high, pre-semester prices. John supposed he had simply spent too many days wandering aimlessly. He'd almost felt drawn there. It was a strange feeling of déjà vu that he couldn't quite place.

And altogether ridiculous. He'd simply seen a crowd gathering and gone along in the vain hopes of something more exciting than a book signing. If there had been, he'd missed it—a rather disgruntled-looking cameraman from the _Daily Prophet_ was sweeping out of the shop as John made his way in, and he'd found himself more engrossed in running his eyes along the familiar rows of gleaming leather spines than locating the source of the crowd's excitement.

The second he'd taken his eyes off them, claustrophobia had flared up. Because these days, nothing made John Lupin feel more alone than standing in the middle of a crowd.

John turned with a sigh, absently flipping up the collar of his robes as he did so. Maybe he'd send Harry an owl, actually meet up with her so they could drown their sorrows in alcohol together. How far the Lupins had come.

But as John retraced his way up Diagon Alley, for some reason he still heard that voice in his head, clear as a bell:

_Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself._

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore was seated at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron. John ran a quick mental check and found that he wasn't even surprised.<p>

"Thought you favored the Hogs Head?"

Albus smiled his greeting.

"Even us elderly folk can appreciate a change in atmosphere, Remus." The headmaster paused. "Or is it John now?"

John shrugged. "Doesn't make much difference anymore."

He had intended the words to come out lightly, but something in Dumbledore's familiar blue X-ray gaze told him they had not. Nevertheless, the headmaster gave a cheerful reply.

"I confess that Abe and I have never quite seen eye to eye on interior decor. To each his own, however. Ah, thank you, Tom."

John knew the drab atmosphere all too well. He gave an unwilling smile.

"I can't imagine that you wouldn't fit right in at the Hog's Head."

Albus, shaking back the sleeve of his deep burgundy robes to accept his drink from the bartender, glanced down and chuckled.

"Alas, our respective fashion statements reflect the same conflict."

There was a short pause. John broke it with a relatively safe question. Traditional, by this point. "Any word on Harry?"

Albus scanned him over the rim of his mug, golden spectacles slipping slightly down his nose. "Abe reports that she is getting on. I imagine she would benefit from seeing you again."

John looked away. "I know. Later this week."

Dumbledore pressed on, gently. "I haven't seen you here as of late. I was under the impression you had taken a flat in Muggle London?"

John stiffened.

"Were you waiting here for someone? I would hate to keep you."

The headmaster raised his eyebrows.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering for you."

"Thanks, but you don't…" John broke off as the hunchbacked bartender deposited a tankard of golden liquid in front of him, disappearing again into the backroom with a slight bow. Dumbledore beamed.

John hesitated before taking a seat beside Albus. "Thank you," he said grudgingly. For lack of anything else to do, he lifted the tankard and took a sip. His eyebrows rose involuntarily at the familiar, innocuous tang of butterbeer.

"For the record, I'm not Harry," he said after a moment.

"I thought nothing of the kind, I assure you." Dumbledore raised his own, identical mug in toast. "To difficult siblings."

John cracked a smile at that, though it cost him a pang to imagine what Mycroft would have to add. Probably join in the toast wholeheartedly, raising a generous measure of the most costly Scotch in the country. The thought of Mycroft Holmes and Albus Dumbledore in the same room was rather too much to contemplate, so John took another large gulp of butterbeer and decided to steer the conversation into more straightforward waters.

"How did you know I was—"

_No, pointless question. Merlin save me from meddling geniuses. _

"Are you here just to catch up?" John amended.

"Yes and no." The headmaster sighed. "I find that my motives are rarely so unilateral as of late. The treachery of old age and responsibility."

"Responsibility?" John asked suspiciously.

"I shall explain more fully in a moment, if you will allow me. But firstly, how are you, John?"

John's head snapped up at the altered use of his name.

"I think I do prefer Remus, now you mention it."

Albus waited.

"I'm…fine," John added grudgingly.

"What have you been doing with yourself since Afghanistan?"

"Not much." John kept his eyes riveted on his tankard. "I can't go back to the army, can I, there would be no explaining how my 'permanent' injury healed so completely."

"I was rather surprised to see your limp had disappeared, as well. The last time we met you seemed convinced that nothing short of a miracle would do, despite the Healers' many assurances."

"Yeah, well," John was surprised into barking a laugh. "I guess you could say I found one."

"Indeed?"

John didn't need to be a genius to hear the unspoken question in that word.

"Like all miracles," he said bitterly, avoiding the headmaster's eye. "It didn't last." He drained his tankard, briefly entertaining the thought of ordering something stronger, but thought better of it under Dumbledore's mild gaze.

"Really," said the headmaster calmly, pressing his fingertips together in a familiar gesture that caused a tightness to pull in John's throat. "I have never found that to be the case."

John traced a finger around the rim of his glass, not knowing what to say to that. The headmaster's next words caught him even further off guard.

"The miracle you refer to is Sherlock, I presume?"

John's tankard clanged against the bar. "How do you…"

"I have maintained an acquaintance with Mycroft Holmes for many years now. I presume it won't surprise you to learn that his government duties often intersect with Ministry matters."

Astonishment and fury struggled briefly with overwhelming curiosity. In the end it was too great an opportunity to pass up, though John knew his tone was probably anything but level as he inquired, "Mycroft's a Muggle, then?"

Dumbledore smiled at his uncertainty. "Yes, though he would probably not appreciate my candor." John's forehead creased and the headmaster elaborated: "Mr. Holmes prefers a certain degree of ambiguity."

"Yeah, I think I picked up on that," John muttered into his empty mug.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Quite."

John raised his eyes unwillingly. "You know Sherlock?" The name slipped off his tongue before he could prevent it.

The headmaster held up a hand. "Not personally, no."

"But you know of him."

"Yes, well, I—"

"Do you know what he is?"

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "I know that he is in equal measure a wizard and scientist of great merit. I know that he is a consulting detective by profession, often accompanied by yourself—"

"Don't." John's voice was flat. "You know what I mean."

"You asked what he is," Albus said quietly. "You didn't ask about the mark on his arm."

John was surprised into another short laugh. "You don't think he's a Death Eater?"

"Certainly I believe he _was_ a Death Eater. There is, in my opinion, a considerable difference."

"Right," John snorted quietly. "I'd forgotten."

"I am not here to discuss any views regarding other individuals of our acquaintance," said Dumbledore slightly coolly. John nodded, abashed—he didn't really have anything against Severus anyway—but stiffened again when Albus continued. "However, I do recommend that you give Sherlock the opportunity to explain himself."

_Crash._

John jumped. He had been too preoccupied to notice that his left hand was trembling again—a good indicator of agitation, he had grudgingly admitted to Ella when it became obvious that the tremor tended to precede bouts of accidental magic. Like this one.

"Sorry about that, Tom," he croaked, as the hunched bartender lurched through the door to investigate the cacophony. "I'll just…"

"Allow me." Dumbledore calmly pointed his wand at the shards of glass. Instantly they reformed into an unbroken tankard, which Tom collected, with another bow, before retreating again. Dumbledore waved his wand silently at the bartender's back. "Prudent to ensure that we remain unheard," he said to John's questioning gaze. John swallowed, getting the point, and made an effort to keep his voice down.

"_Explain himself?_ He's a bloody _Death Eater. _He fought, probably _killed_, innocent people. People on _our _side. Maybe you recall I lost a few friends." His voice was so dry it felt brittle in his throat.

"I am not denying the reality of his previous allegiance," said Dumbledore clearly. "What you say is possible, even probable."

"_You_ know about him; why isn't he in Azkaban?"

"That is for Sherlock to tell you."

There was a brief staring match. John tapped his fingers slowly against the rough stone bar, consciously fighting the urge to pound a fist against it. "Why?"

Dumbledore smiled sadly.

"Because if you're not willing to ask, it doesn't matter anyway."

_So now it's my fault. _John's fist tightened.

"I think you're forgetting that he lied to me for over a year, headmaster." Albus recognized the danger in John's mild tone.

"Perhaps he foresaw your reaction."

"Are you…" John was so angry he could hardly speak.

Dumbledore reached over and gripped his shoulder, unexpectedly. "You reacted in the most rational way possible, Remus, given past events. Sherlock, as I understand it, deals in the rational. Apparently he didn't wish to give you impetus to leave. I am suggesting you give him the opportunity to explain why. The choice is your own, and not the only reason I wished to meet you here." Albus paused to give John a moment to swallow his anger.

John shut his eyes, opened them, and nodded curtly, signaling the headmaster to proceed.

Albus pinched the bridge of his nose, for the first time betraying a hint of weariness. "I presume you have heard of Gilderoy Lockhart?"

John frowned. "Sort of on accident, yeah. What's he got to do with me?"

"Nothing. That is precisely the point." Dumbledore sighed. "I have hired Gilderoy as the next year's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

"Er…" John searched his brain for some polite way to voice what he thought of this idea, and came up empty.

Dumbledore saved him the necessity of forming any comment.

"Believe me, Remus, when I say that I was entirely without alternative." He paused. "I don't wish to bore you with my staffing problems, but it is entirely possible that at this point next year I will be looking to fill the position again. Lockhart's approach to Defense is known to be…creative, to say the least."

Though still bewildered, John nodded his agreement. Out of mild curiosity he'd plucked one of the man's books off the shelf in Flourish and Blotts and scanned a few pages before replacing it with a snort. Ludicrous was an understatement.

"What does that—"

"The point, Remus, is that if you are available at this time next year I am prepared to offer you the job."

"ME?" John lurched back in surprise, nearly falling off his stool. When he could speak again he continued, "I thought everyone sort of breathed a collective sigh of relief when I left Hogwarts the first time?"

Dumbledore smiled. "If you are referring to your 'furry little problem', you need not worry. I can instruct Severus to provide you with a monthly supply of Wolfsbane. It need not come to the Shrieking Shack option—I suspect there is little nostalgia there."

John shifted in his seat, wondering whether Dumbledore knew or suspected where he had spent the last two full moons. Finally he asked, "Why me?"

"Because I trust you, because you are fully qualified, because you have seen combat, magical and otherwise, and because I was never blind to your positive influence on the other students." Dumbledore listed steadily. He smiled. "I suspect we have you to thank that the biggest troublemakers in Hogwarts history never got themselves expelled."

A glow flared unexpectedly in his chest, and John found himself laughing for the first time in ages. "I knew there was some mad reason you made me prefect."

"I am confident you have the makings of a fine professor. And one day soon it may become a matter of urgency that our students have excellent defensive instruction…James' son in particular."

_James' son. _John felt his heart stop, briefly, and then he was reeling with the implications of Albus' words. "Wait…Do you mean…"

"That he is in danger? Yes, I fear so. Harry has already learned that Lord Voldemort is not as dead as he once seemed."

_"What?"_

Dumbledore stood, retrieving his pointed wizard's hat from the bar.

"Hang on!" protested John furiously. "You can't just…"

Albus held up a hand to forestall John's demands.

"It is a fine thing to catch up with old friends, Remus. I will correspond with you shortly—and regularly, I hope—via owl. The tale I allude to is long and intricate, its implications still more complex, and I am, alas, called away. I wish you the best of luck in everything and ask you to consider carefully my offer. While I am headmaster there will always be a place for you at Hogwarts."

John could only nod.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"And do go and visit Harry," were his last words, before he turned with a swirl of robes and disappeared with a small 'pop'.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: _Classic_ Dumbledore there. Leave with a dramatic enough swish of robes and the problems will resolve themselves. Am I right?**

**I think he'd get along well with Sherlock.**


	9. Chapter 9

The flat was empty. Then—with the sort of quiet, unassuming sound that often preludes greater happenings—it was not.

John looked around. It didn't take a genius to deduce that Sherlock had gone out. Temporarily, it seemed, as he could hear one of those bloody experimental potions bubbling away in the room down the hall. John made it as far as the plaid armchair in the living room, and there he collapsed. He didn't know what he was doing here. Heck, he didn't even know if he wanted to be here. But his head was no less muddled after two months of emptiness. Quite the opposite, in fact: last week's conversation with Dumbledore had whirled maddeningly around his mind until his feet had finally made the decision for him. Apparently they contained enough destination, determination and desperation for all of him.

Appearing in the darkened flat was a silent shock to all of his senses. It was so crushingly _familiar_—the kitchen table littered with probably-toxic and almost-certainly-illegal magizoology specimens, the knife buried in the pockmarked mantle, the groan of springs in his armchair…John looked down, a slight frown settling between his brows. The room's overall dimness wasn't enough to mask the cloud of dust that drifted upwards from the cushion as he settled himself.

John pushed down the strange, alien feeling floating from the vague corner of his mind that noted that Sherlock had not yet altered the anti-Apparation wards to reflect the flat's reduced population. Maybe he was, after all, still wanted—

John tamped that thought back down. Wanted by whom? Sher—no, Holm—_oh, I don't know anymore. _

And exactly when had he started caring again?

(When had he ever stopped?)

_Fear of a name…_

John shook his head, wishing his thoughts would settle into stillness for once. Perhaps coming back here had been a mistake. No, coming back here had almost _certainly _been a mistake.

He was too tired to move.

_Wanted_ was far too strong a word, anyway. Sherlock had proven his independence time and again. Perpetual motion doesn't need an audience. By now, John might be about as welcome on the steps of 221B as…as Mycroft. A strange, hollow chill rose in his chest at the thought.

But the look on Sherlock's face, that night—

John pushed that thought down too.

An hour later, Sherlock's measured footsteps made it as far as the base of the stairs and halted. John had no idea what sort of clue he could have left, having Apparated directly into the flat, but he found himself smiling in the darkness. _Trust him._

Then slowly, the steps made their creaking way upstairs and into the flat. John hadn't bothered about getting up to turn on a lamp. But that didn't matter to Sherlock Holmes.

"John."

They said those few words, then. The ones that didn't make up a proper conversation, and certainly didn't solve anything between them, but still somehow meant the world.

* * *

><p>John was back. Sherlock pressed his fingertips against his temples, trying to calm his racing thoughts, to keep them in check. John was back, but that didn't mean he was there to stay. It didn't mean he didn't hate Sherlock. It meant…what did it mean? That John was giving him another chance, maybe. Or he was just here to pack the things he'd left behind.<p>

But now that he was back, John seemed in no hurry to leave. Sherlock didn't ask where he'd been. It was fairly obvious from his attire, and anyway words had swallowed themselves the night John left, or evaporated into the air with the stink of petrol and asphalt and fresh blood. It was unclear when [whether] the words would return, and whether they would induce the doctor to stay or hasten him on his way. So Sherlock didn't say much of anything, after the initial meeting. Just silently deposited the usual mug of potion next to John's armchair. It was less than a week until the full moon.

John was back. The world was slightly unbalanced, hazy, off-key. Sherlock didn't sleep for three days, afraid he would awake to find his return a hallucination.

It was a logical assumption, one that would fit the lingering silence of the last two months.

But on the fourth day he awoke and John was there. Still, solidly there—hefting the TV remote and raising an eyebrow in the usual expression of pointed disbelief reserved for the times Sherlock did something entirely ridiculous, like sleep on the sofa instead of the perfectly good and vastly more comfortable mattress in his bedroom.

Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have suspected it was reluctance to transform without the potion that drew him back. But not John. John was incapable of using anyone that way. His pride would have had him Apparating to a deserted forest or island to transform—he wouldn't even have thought of returning to Sherlock, unless some part of him was willing to offer him a chance.

If this was a test, it wasn't one that Sherlock was at all sure he would pass.

And the thought of having John back and watching him leave again was unbearable.

Another consideration: Lestrade would be bothering him with that string of burglaries any day now. Sherlock shot off a quick text to the detective inspector, hoping to ensure some privacy; he had no intention of letting Lestrade and the others know John was back only to see him disappear again.

After sending the text Sherlock set his phone down, rubbing the screen absently against the leather arm of his chair.

"John," he said. Too suddenly. The familiar name sounded strange in the long-neglected baritone; suddenly it occurred to Sherlock to wonder when he had last spoken aloud prior to John's return. To Mrs. Hudson, of course. A good night, at least, or perhaps a complaint about the housekeeping…

He found his eyes drawn past John to the desk. Several neglected plates of food rested there; he hadn't quite recalled seeing them, before…But he'd kept track, hadn't he? Offered a thank you. Good morning. Surely.

Then again, perhaps not.

John had raised his head from where it had been drooping over the latest _Daily Prophet_. He was waiting patiently, well used to his flatmate's tangential attention span; vaguely Sherlock hoped it hadn't been more than a few seconds. He'd been about to say something, hadn't he? Something important.

Ah, yes.

"I …you should know I'll tell you anything. Anything you want to know."

John gave him a long, searching glance, and nodded.

The week wore on—awkward silence mingled with overwhelming relief.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Soon, my friends. Soooon.**


	10. Chapter 10

The sky was grey, clouded over, and the gaps were just beginning to fade into the deep blue that followed sunset. It should have been beautiful, but it wasn't because Greg knew the clouds wouldn't be content with hanging over the streetlamps. It was going to be one of those hideously close, foggy nights when not a single star pushed through the cloud layer and the damp crawled down your neck and beneath your coat collar. It was one of those nights that people who didn't live in London loved to romanticize, right along with the echo of hooves and hansom cabs on cobblestone streets. Lestrade snorted as he slammed his car door, hunching further into his jacket. The eighteenth century could keep the fog, as far as he was concerned.

He looked up at the brick building in front of him and sighed. Sherlock wasn't going to be happy to see him.

_Not feeling well. Don't bother me. SH_

Right.

Greg knew full well that Sherlock's text contained less truth than his brother's job description. Sherlock Holmes didn't get sick. The man was a bloody automaton. In the ten years Lestrade had known him, he'd never seen Sherlock come down with so much as a cold. He even recovered from injuries at a freakish rate.

There was no way Sherlock Holmes was ill. There had to be another explanation. Petulance. Boredom. Something.

It was the _Something_ that had Greg worried.

Lestrade was at his wit's end. The police had hit a handful of dead ends on what Sherlock would have called a magnificent series of burglaries. He ought to be over the moon over this, Greg thought, glancing wryly upward at the round, pale coin that shone silver through the mist. Yet the detective had maintained determined radio silence in spite of two calls and half a dozen increasingly desperate text messages. Something was up. The only time he'd done this before had been…

A long time ago.

_Not feeling well. Don't bother me._

Lestrade glanced down at the bulge his phone made in his jacket pocket, his heart sinking. There was a number listed with no contact name. One he'd only had to call once before, and really, really hoped never to again.

First things first. Greg squared his shoulders, sighed, and tapped lightly on the door marked 221B.

* * *

><p>John had curled up next to Sherlock on the sofa.<p>

This was, contrary to Mrs. Hudson's belief, not an ordinary occurrence.

Actually, there was a lot about the scene that was out of the ordinary. Cuddling didn't really scratch the surface.

Sherlock heard the knock downstairs but disregarded it. The lightness of the sound and Mrs. Hudson's fluttering pointed to the probability that it was a friend of hers, one she hadn't seen in a while. No one visited 221B except for clients and occasionally Lestrade. He had already made it clear that Lestrade wasn't welcome, and though Sherlock had had late-night clients before, they nearly always rang. When they did knock, desperation spoke clearly in the force of knuckles against wood. It was seven o'clock, late for working hours but not too late for a social visit. And Sherlock didn't receive social visits.

Which, on this particular night, was just as well.

Sherlock, lounging on the sofa, remained relaxed in this assumption for a few blissful moments, until the murmur from downstairs resolved abruptly into Lestrade's familiar, booted tread ascending the stairs.

Sherlock cursed under his breath. Once in a great while the balance of probability let him down.

Of course Lestrade would choose _this_ night to be a meddling idiot. There wasn't even time to head him off. But that was all right, because on nights like this, John always locked the door.

As the steps leveled off at the landing, John jolted into consciousness and gave him a Look. If it had been anyone else Sherlock would have called it raw, unrestrained panic.

He froze. "Oh, for Merlin's…"

The door was flung wide before either of them had time to move. Sherlock was opening his mouth, whether to curse or to berate the detective inspector he hardly knew—but if it was the former, Lestrade beat him to it. Quite colorfully. With much melodramatic stumbling against the doorframe.

Recovering swiftly and deciding the quickest thing was to wait it out, Sherlock leaned back and stifled a yawn.

"What—what _is_ that thing?" Lestrade stuttered, eventually realizing that the Thing was not leaping up to eat him.

"Really Lestrade, I should think…"

"No," Greg interrupted. "Rephrased: what is a bloody great wolf doing on your sofa?"

Sherlock looked down. His flatmate looked as offended as it is possible for a werewolf to look while trying very hard not to raise his hackles, growl, eat anyone, or otherwise indicate displeasure. Through the sofa cushions, however, Sherlock could feel the thump of John's enormous heart hammering inside his ribcage.

"Blindingly inaccurate deduction, even for you, George." Sherlock ran a hand over John's thick ruff, partly for show, mainly to reassure him. John's transformation had rendered him, intriguingly, more responsive to physical touch than verbal assurances. Like any other canine.

"Toby is a wolfhound. Obviously. I'm looking after him…for a friend."

"You're not telling me that that enormous…_thing_…is just a dog."

"That's precisely what I'm telling you," retorted Sherlock. "Honestly, Gavin, just because you and your soon-to-be ex-wife prefer useless, yappy things along the line of Yorkshire terriers…"

"It's _Greg,_ and Smokey belongs to my _wife,_ for your…" Lestrade shook his head. "You're sure it's not going to rip me apart?"

Sherlock stroked the wolf's ears, considering.

_"He_ has no such intentions, though I might," he snarled at last. "Didn't I tell you not to bother me? Are you going to explain why you have a right to barge into my home?"

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably.

"Mrs. Hudson…" he began.

"…has no right to invite you into _my _flat without knocking," Sherlock interrupted.

Sherlock was right, of course. Lestrade hesitated, leaning against the doorframe, but it didn't take long to make up his mind. 'Toby's' shoulders tensed as the detective inspector stepped inside the flat, the door slamming shut behind him.

"May I sit down?" Lestrade asked with exaggerated politeness, eyes still fixed cautiously on the wolf.

Sherlock lifted his chin.

"Interesting."

Greg forgot about politeness, exaggerated or otherwise, and settled himself in an armchair with his feet braced against the floor, prepared to fling himself to the side if 'Toby' decided to pounce.

"What's interesting?" he asked guardedly.

"You are. If I had bothered to check my phone, the last few texts would showcase your increasing desperation for help with a case that anyone, save perhaps Anderson, could solve if they just applied their _brains…_at first I presumed that was why you were here. Perhaps it was, in part. But the reluctance of your knock downstairs reveals your trepidation. You don't want to be here. Or, you hoped I wouldn't anticipate your presence. Or both."

Sherlock continued oblivious to Lestrade's attempts at interruption, steepling his fingers under his chin.

"You were in a rush, that much is obvious, but as you are ordinarily complacent beneath the crushing burden of society's constraints, flinging open the door to my flat without knocking is out of character. Showing your hand. It's not just the case, then…oh, _dull._" He closed his eyes. "You wanted me caught by surprise. Hoping to catch me 'in the act'?"

Lestrade rubbed his hands over his face.

"Not hoping," he said wearily. "Never hoping."

Sherlock sat up, pushing John's head gently onto his knee. It was something of a shock to hear Lestrade's sincerity echoed in his own voice.

"Greg. I'm not on drugs."

Lestrade raised his head, searching Sherlock's face. Finally he sighed. Leather squeaked as he shifted in his armchair.

"I _want_ to believe you. You've no idea how badly I _want _to. But—"

"You just assume I'm lying?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," said Greg acidly.

"I've been clean for ten years," Sherlock's razor voice stopped him cold. "More or less. Besides which, there is no reason…I have cases. I have work. I am perfectly fine."

"You were," Lestrade broke in. "You were. I don't know anymore."

A dangerous edge crept into Sherlock's voice. "Why is it any of your concern?"

"Why did you lie about being ill?" Greg countered.

"I was busy, Lestrade!" Sherlock snapped. "With another case. Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait for you to come crawling…"

"Oh? Has that case lasted two months?"

Sherlock recoiled.

"I caught you several murderers within that time period, as I recall." His voice was granite.

"Yes, but you've…"

"You're welcome, by the way."

"Yes, you've helped!" Lestrade shouted. "Bloody magician, you are. It's been business as usual, except _you've hardly said a word_."

"The likes of Anderson and Donovan aren't worth—"

"In two months."

The wolf raised its head. Sherlock's hand stilled on its ruff, tightening slightly. His own pulse was beginning to race now. He'd thought he'd eliminated the necessity of having to Obliviate Lestrade with his clever, quick thinking and lies, but the man was making it so bloody _tempting…_

Lestrade was still talking, oblivious to his danger.

"You're miserable, Sherlock, it's obvious, and you have been since…I know where that leads, or at least where it's lead before. And I can't let you go there."

Forget _obliviate,_ other curses were racing through Sherlock's mind now, and though his wand lay inanimate beneath the sofa, he had to curl his fingers tightly in John's fur to keep them from leaping out of his fingertips.

He spoke in as level a tone as he could muster, seething inwardly.

"Your concern is unnecessary. I am never _'going there'_ again."

Lestrade sat forward, fighting an urge to cross his arms.

"Then show me."

_No,_ hissed Sherlock's mind, still sparking with words, magical words that would make the man forget why he had ever come, send him crawling home on all fours. It rankled that this simpleminded Muggle—a _friend_, maybe, people said that like it should solve everything, but still a Muggle, still _completely_ uninformed—thought he could walk in and try to understand something utterly beyond his reach. A bit of déjà vu that Sherlock didn't have time for right now. He didn't _owe_ Lestrade anything. Certainly didn't owe it to him to give in to his ludicrous demands. But if he didn't…

John would remember. John would wonder. John had already heard everything that Lestrade, curse him, had let slip. As though he had a right.

And John would want to check for himself, and Sherlock could not…_would not_…watch his face again when he saw it.

So while his brain screamed, _Get out!_ Sherlock leaned forward and unbuttoned his right cuff, rolling down his sleeve for Lestrade to see. The only track marks there were scattered and ancient, scarcely visible. Ten years healed.

"Happy?" he asked drily, because it didn't take a genius to deduce what came next.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed.

"The other one," he said.

Knowing it was coming didn't make it better. The only thing that would make it better was if John wasn't beside him, John with his thick fur and glinting green eyes and enormous, muscled frame, recognizable in spite of all this to one person in the world. The one person who had let him down most.

Sherlock tore open his left cuff, angling his arm away from John, who stiffened beside him. The jagged pink line of a badly healed scar was the freshest wound there, the cluster of track marks at his elbow long healed. Irrelevant. Faded. Memories. Unlike the bold, ugly black strokes twining down his forearm.

"Happy now?" Sherlock snarled, heart pounding, wishing the rush of blood in his ears could drown out the growl rumbling deep in John's chest.

Lestrade nodded, but couldn't tear his eyes from the tattoo. He'd seen it before, on a few memorable occasions, but it had always seemed somehow _wrong_. Even more so than the tiny scars left by the needle's prick. It was a strange tattoo. Deeper black than ink should be, it looked almost like something burned, branded into the pale skin. Something wrong and sinister and entirely not Sherlock.

On the job, there was one rule Lestrade never broke. A lot of the guys would have sneered at him for it—the ones who brushed off anything they didn't understand. But like his dad, like his old mentor, like all the best Detective Inspectors he'd known, Lestrade always trusted his instincts. And right now his instincts were telling him that figuring out this mark would go a long way toward unraveling the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes.

Because maybe he wasn't on drugs, and that was great. Better than Greg had dared hope. But anyone could see Sherlock was hurting. Even Sergeant Donovan, of all people, had commented. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson had been…well, they'd been _something_. Something that was a whole lot more than most people ever experienced. And now that the doctor was gone, it didn't matter that Holmes was as brilliant as ever, that he strode around crime scenes in his long coat, plucking clues from thin air and unraveling mysteries in five minutes that would have taken the police force months. That _something_ was missing, and Sherlock wasn't enough anymore. For himself.

Lestrade had no idea how to put him back together again. But in his experience, standing around dithering on the sidelines had never done anyone much good.

"Sherlock," he started, searching the other man's face. "What is that mark? What's so bad about it that John…"

He could never have said which was on his feet first: Sherlock, or the enormous wolfhound he called 'Toby'. Sherlock had yanked his arm back and was buttoning his sleeve with lightning fingers, avoiding Lestrade's gaze.

"Get out," he hissed, but his voice was drowned out by an even deeper, threatening rumble. It was the gut-wrenching roar of a low-flying fighter edged with the vicious snarl of cats in an alley, and it ran up and down Lestrade's spine and sparked some primal well of panic deep in his brain.

Toby the wolfhound was nearly as long as the sofa, stood at the height of Lestrade's chest, and was fixing him with fury—or hunger—in his wild green eyes.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had one rule. He always obeyed his instincts.

After the door slammed shut, Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa as though his strings had been cut. "Do me a favor, John," he mumbled distractedly, scratching at his left arm as the growling droned to a halt. "If you ever go on a murderous, maiming rampage, start with this."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Canon references, anyone?**

**And way to jump to conclusions, Greg. At least Dumbledore had the courtesy to give John his pep talk when Sherlock WASN'T IN THE ROOM!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: In conjunction with my six-year-old brother, I recently wrote and illustrated a children's book entitled "The Morally Ambiguous Adventures of Bill." It strikes me that Sherlock's life could accurately be labeled the same way.**

* * *

><p>Not surprisingly, John's greatest fear was the moon. He hated the control it had over him, dreaded the way it sang in his veins and called to him more and more as it grew round in the sky. More than anything, he feared losing control and harming someone. An innocent. A stranger, perhaps. A child, as he had been. A friend. Second only to this fear was his dread of people discovering his secret.<p>

There were a very few who didn't care. James and Peter had been true friends to the end. Of course, he had thought Sirius was the same, and look how that turned out. But there were others. Lily, with her gift for seeing past your fears and resentments and mistakes to what was most valuable. Dumbledore: simply the kindest, most open-minded wizard John knew. And Sherlock. Sherlock had his own reasons.

But to let anyone _see_ him like that, see the monster inside…it was jarring, terrifying. Even if that someone was a Muggle. Even a friend. Even Lestrade.

And even if he was bloody clueless.

There was no doubt that the detective inspector's latest 'drugs bust' was the most uncomfortable either John or Sherlock had ever sat through.

So why was he almost happy about it?

"You have got to get that _bloody_ doorbell out of the fridge," John grumbled, stumbling down the stairs the next morning. Sherlock, gaze locked into his microscope, grimaced his agreement.

"…Don't you think an Anti-Intruder Hex would be a little more effecti—"

_"No,"_ said John firmly, and for a moment everything was back to normal between them. It lasted for a few minutes while John puttered around making tea and toast, even dropping a plate next to the microscope, where it went ignored. John retreated from the kitchen after breakfast, however, and went to have a shower. He needed time out of Sherlock's presence to think without having his mind read (literally or otherwise), and besides, every muscle in his body ached from the transformation.

John stood beneath the steaming water and closed his eyes, letting it pound away the pain and tension in his shoulders. It was hard to work out whether he was still angry with Sherlock. No, it wasn't. A bloody _Dark Mark_ was not the sort of obstacle you just got over.

So why was he here?

Because Dumbledore had said so. Right.

_Because you missed him,_ hissed something in John's brain, the same accusatory tone that sounded whenever he failed to fully edit Sirius from his memories of the Marauders. _Just the way you miss Sirius._

John grimaced.

_ Not Sirius. Black. And I don't miss him._

_ They're the same, you know. Both Death Eaters. Both murderers._

John cringed away from the thought for the thousandth time. Sherlock Holmes, a murderer? It wasn't possible. No. Because that would mean that Sally had been right all along. That he'd been taken in. Not possible. Besides, he hadn't the slightest evidence. Apart from that bloody Mark.

No one ever said all Death Eaters were murderers.

_What else would You-Know-Who need followers for? _the snide voice scoffed. _Garden parties?_

And _that_, John reflected, with the usual unlikely muddle of frustration and hope, _that_ was what made the least sense of all. Sherlock _following_ anyone. Sherlock Holmes acknowledging the superiority of another human, wizard or Muggle. It was incomprehensible.

Besides, if Sherlock was really a criminal, he wouldn't be free to roam about London, would he? And he certainly wouldn't have a wand. He might have managed to hoodwink the Ministry of Magic, but not Mycroft. Nothing got past Mycroft.

Who might or might not also be a Death Eater, whatever Dumbledore thought.

There were a half-dozen other possibilities too, hovering in the back of his mind…but no, John had made his decision when he returned to Baker Street. He would hear the story from Sherlock's own mouth. Whether or not he deserved it.

* * *

><p>The twang of violin strings greeted John as he entered the living room, fully dressed and rubbing his hair with a towel. John stole a quick glance at Sherlock, who was lounged in his armchair and seemed to be staring through rather than at the wall. John frowned. When Sherlock needed to think, he usually played his violin properly—anything from Bach to Mozart to the hollow, heart-rending melodies he seemed to compose on the spot. Only occasionally had John seen him pluck aimlessly at the strings, and then usually for the sake of irritating Mycroft. At the moment Sherlock looked miles away, but his face held none of the intense concentration or curious blankness that John associated with trips to his 'mind palace'. Was it possible that this inharmonious plucking of strings was Sherlock's version of comfort? It was strange how the notes could be so clear and so clamorous all at once, like an echo of tangled thoughts.<p>

With a sudden lurch of guilt, John remembered Lestrade's words the night before. He'd always prided himself on his loyalty, on staying true to his friends. Like a true Gryffindor. And yet he'd left Sherlock at the first sign of…

Sign of what? Betrayal?

Something cold settled in John's stomach with the realization. He wasn't frightened of the bloody moon. Not really. Or rather, he was, but that danger was under control. He couldn't muster up any especial fear of bullets, either, despite the wound in his shoulder and the visions of Afghanistan that occasionally cropped up in nightmares. The _Avada Kedavra _was the same: he had brushed up against death too many times, lost too many loved ones for the unknown to have that kind of hold over him.

No, John's real fear was betrayal. Being stabbed in the back. And that was what had broken his loyalty—he had left when the first shade of Sherlock's past surfaced. Simply disappeared before that could happen again. John felt shame flood over him. Since when had he let fear control his life?

But he was back now. So maybe he was stronger than the fear. As he had never been stronger than the wolf.

John poured himself a second cup of tea before settling into his armchair, where he found his attention caught on the sofa cushion. Several rough canine hairs still clung to it. He found himself chuckling.

"'Toby'?" he asked, startling himself with the question. Not exactly the way he had intended to begin this conversation…

Sherlock glanced up. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Sorry about that. The odds of Lestrade making the werewolf connection were roughly six million to one, but I thought it unwise to tell him my dog was named 'John'. Although, I do imagine his face would have been priceless."

John found himself chuckling again at the image. "Yeah, maybe not."

"Molly's cat, in case you were wondering."

"What?"

"Toby. It was the first name that came to mind. Molly was going on about her cat during my last visit to the morgue. My filter must have been less efficient than usual."

John made an attempt to toss his towel over the back of the sofa, but it landed in a limp wad because he was convulsing with laughter. "You named me—a _werewolf_—after Molly's cat?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his brows drawing together.

John calmed down after a minute or two. It felt good to laugh. It had been far too long—it was too easy to forget just how _funny_ Sherlock could be, mostly because he rarely understood why John was laughing. Merlin, it just felt good to be back at Baker Street with his best friend.

_You don't know that you're here to stay,_ warned the little voice buried deep in his consciousness, but John pushed it aside. For two months, bitterness had kept him from answers. It wasn't going to hold him back any longer.

"You know," John ventured after a short pause, "a wolfhound actually looks nothing like a wolf."

_"I _know that, and you know that, but Lestrade doesn't," replied Sherlock, rubbing his bow absently through his curls. "He's never been a dog person. I was surprised he lasted as long as he did last night."

John winced at the memory, but this was a good a transition into the new topic as any.

"Yeah, well, I can't blame him, I suppose. It's…harder, as a wolf, to keep control. Even with the potion. Animals are driven by instinct. Fight or flight."

Sherlock plucked at his A-string, not looking at John. "It seemed you followed the conversation."

"It was…hard," said John slowly. "A wolf's brain isn't made to follow human speech patterns. But yes. I did."

"It wasn't all true. What he said. He didn't have the right—"

"He thought you were alone," said John soothingly. "I should've left. Upstairs, I mean," he added hastily.

Sherlock snorted. Only John Watson would worry about manners as a wolf.

"I mean what I said, you know," he added suddenly. Defiantly. "Lestrade constantly assumes I'll succumb to old addictions if I'm…bored enough. Mycroft too. Even you, to some extent-I know you've helped them search."

John tried to twist his expression into something less guilty, but Sherlock wasn't looking at him.

"But it's behind me. In the past. Whatever they may think." Sherlock finished abruptly, as though embarrassed—or at least, as embarrassed as it was possible for him to get. John ran a finger along the rim of his mug as he contemplated Sherlock's words. It was only a moment later that he realized they weren't just talking about cocaine.

And maybe that wasn't what he was asking, either.

"Why did you start?" he asked, cautiously, because Sherlock was never this open about his past. Particularly not this aspect of it.

Sherlock's long fingers stilled on the strings, and his sea-glass eyes met John's.

"John," he said quietly. "I said I'll tell you anything—anything I know. Do you want that now?"

John took a deep breath. It was good to be back with Sherlock. Pretending everything was normal. But he couldn't keep pretending. So he nodded.

Sherlock dropped the violin to his side and sighed, tapping the bow lightly against his head.

"There's a lot I _can't_ tell you. Because I don't remember."

John's brow furrowed. "Don't…remember?"

"Amnesia."

John's eyes narrowed as he tried to sort this out. "You, of all people, hit with a Memory Charm?"

"I don't think…I don't know. Obviously, I don't remember. But that feels…wrong."

"Yeah, it would," John muttered, reeling as he struggled to fit this unexpected revelation into the fragile framework of everything he knew about his flatmate. "Okay then, what _do_ you remember?"

"The past ten years or so."

John sat bolt upright. "Hang on, you mean you don't have _any _memories of growing up? Of Hogwarts?"

Sherlock's eyes rested on him calmly. "I know what I've been told."

"But…" John was bewildered. Sherlock's reticence about his past was one thing, but _this? _It took a moment to find the words.

"I'm no certified Healer, but I managed a few courses at St. Mungo's before they kicked me out. And Memory Charms that strong…well, they break you, Sherlock. You can't _Obliviate_ that much of someone's past without dismantling their mind as well."

Sherlock inclined his head. "Then you follow my reasoning. In any case, I can hardly see myself being so careless."

"But you remember spells and things you learned at Hogwarts."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "And before, I think. My magical and general knowledge are obviously intact. Just nothing of my…personal life."

"Okay." John loosened his deathgrip on the armrest and placed his mug of tea shakily on a side table. "Okay. Er…begin at the beginning, then?"

"The beginning," Sherlock groaned. "Unfortunately, it features Mycroft. And a good deal of tedious interrogation."

"By Mycroft?"

"Mostly, no. Auror Office's finest. Even more inept than Scotland Yard, if you can imagine. Condensed version: according to Mycroft, I showed up dripping wet and ranting to thin air on the street outside his club one day. Sheer coincidence, of course, but the Muggle government got to me first and Mycroft has been unbearably smug about it ever since. Took a special interest in my case," Sherlock added bitterly.

"By 'showed up' you mean…"

"Apparated."

"Hang on," said John, a bit overwhelmed at the flood of information after so many months of drought. "Mycroft's not your brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not by blood. The Holmes family force-adopted me, for lack of a better term. Sentiment, on the part of my parents, though I suspect Mycroft had more practical motives."

John realized his mouth was hanging open and quickly shut it.

"Like keeping you safe?" he managed after a moment.

Sherlock frowned. "Keeping me under his thumb, more likely."

John shook his head. "Okay, so you Apparated into the middle of London one day and got arrested. Because a few Muggle higher-ups recognized the Mark."

Sherlock pulled unconsciously at his sleeve. "Yes."

"And turned you over to the Ministry?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Then…why aren't you in Azkaban?"

"Because aside from the Mark, there wasn't a shred of evidence against me," Sherlock snapped. "Not that that would have mattered to the Ministry, desperate as they were to tell the public they'd captured _someone_. But even in the magical government, Mycroft has a substantial degree of influence. He persuaded the few level-headed wizards in power that it made more sense to conceal my capture. The idea was to gain an advantage over the Death Eaters using whatever information they got out of me. It didn't work out that way. I didn't know anything, and they couldn't prove anything."

John mulled this over.

"So then did you get…released?" he asked awkwardly.

"Eventually. My…youth helped, I think," said Sherlock quietly. "I think Dumbledore took an interest—I was barely out of Hogwarts at the time. Perhaps nineteen. And…my family." All of a sudden he appeared very interested in the pattern on the carpet.

"Your family?" asked John slowly. "I thought you didn't…"

"I was recognized. My family is well-known."

John sat back in his chair. "Who are they, then?"

"You've heard the stories," muttered Sherlock. "Plenty of Death Eaters got off—the ones from respectable pureblood families, anyway—by claiming they were hoodwinked. When things cooled down after the Dark—after Voldemort fell, my verdict went the same way. As I said, they had no evidence."

"Sherlock," said John firmly, his grip tightening on the armrest. "What's your name?"

If John had any doubts about the dread in his flatmate's eyes, he lost them then. Sherlock actually flinched backward at the question, as though John had raised a hand to hit him.

"Black," he mumbled, barely meeting John's eye. "Regulus Black."

John reeled.


	12. Chapter 12

It didn't have to mean anything.

Generally speaking, pureblood families were huge, sprawling, interconnected. Sherlock—no, _Regulus—_didn't have to be in the direct line. He could easily have been a cousin, a nephew…but even as John thought it, wildly, his first meeting with Sirius sprang into his mind.

"_What about your family, then?"_

_ "What about them? Parents and a kid brother." Sirius scowled briefly, then brushed his tangled bangs back from his eyes and smiled that wide, mischievous grin that usually preceded a week spent in detention. "I came to Gryffindor to get away from them. C'mon, James reckons he's found a secret room behind that mirror on the third floor…"_

John had always suspected that Sirius' dislike of his family was more profound than he let on, but thinking back, he was sure of it. Five years at the same school, and he had never met Sirius' 'kid brother'. Though he knew, of course, that the Blacks were a traditionally Slytherin family. It was too much of a coincidence.

John realized with a start that Sherlock was still frozen in his seat, watching the tangle of emotions play across his face. John didn't bother to tame them—he had never been able to make his face a blank mask, the way Sherlock could. He'd always envied him the ability, but now John realized that maybe it wasn't self-discipline. Maybe Sherlock had too much blankness in his life.

Suddenly a whole lot of things made sense.

John leaned forward and placed his fingertips beneath Sherlock's chin, drawing it up gently. It was a strange, intimate gesture that would have felt wrong under any other circumstances, but he had to know. Sherlock didn't pull back, so John studied his face, comparing it with the one he had never quite managed to erase from memory. After a minute he drew back.

"You're his brother, then." It took a lot to choke out the words.

Sherlock dropped his gaze again. "Yes."

"Sir…Sirius mentioned you, once." It was hard to say the name aloud, harder than John would have believed.

Sherlock raised his eyes. "Did he?"

"You don't remember him?"

"Not at all."

"That's why you're here though, isn't it? In the Muggle world." John cleared his throat. "I mean—there are loads of others: Malfoy, Nott, Macnair—all of them got off, like you said. And so did you, until…"

"My brother became the most wanted Dark wizard alive," finished Sherlock drily. "From what I've heard of Sirius, he was always trying to get one up on me. Yes, Mycroft foresaw that the prejudice thus engendered against my family name would overpower the Ministry's flimsy sense of justice in my case. He helped me to disappear, gave me a new identity in the Muggle world. I was more or less in hiding."

John snorted. "Not hiding very well, are you? How many Muggles order lungfish spleen via owl?"

"I said 'was'. Very few people knew of my incarceration in the first place. Those that did are now dead or retired. Mycroft…encouraged them to stay quiet. Most of our world has long assumed me dead. And there's still no evidence against me."

"Still," murmured John. "Probably a good thing you don't frequent Diagon Alley."

Sherlock tilted his head, looking at John strangely.

"What?"

"You don't…despise me?"

John thought it over for a moment. "No," he said honestly.

"Not after your friends…" Sherlock trailed off.

John shuddered. "How do you even know about that?"

"Conjecture. It was no secret that the Potters—" Sherlock shot another glance at him, "—were under threat from the Dark Lord. It would have been madness not to have a Secret-Keeper."

John shrugged. "I hate him," he said simply. "He's not you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Unfortunately, neither of us has any way of knowing that."

"We don't have any way of knowing otherwise." John was surprised at the force in his own voice. "I'm not going to judge you on what you might have done."

Sherlock was staring at him again. "Generally people prefer to err on the side of suspicion."

"Yeah, well, I already tried that, and it didn't work out so well."

The detective furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. "I left you alone and injured, dangerously so. I'm a bloody _doctor_, I made a promise to do no harm. Even to strangers. There was no excuse—" his voice broke slightly, "—for doing that to a friend."

Sherlock's heart, which seemed, absurdly, to have suspended its beating, lurched back into motion. "I am fully capable of healing bleeding wounds," he said indignantly.

John met his gaze. "Let's see it, then."

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

"Anything," John reminded him. "You promised."

Sherlock held his gaze stubbornly for a second longer, then yanked his sleeve down and held it out. John was prepared this time for the ugly sight of the Dark Mark, and let his eyes trace it for only a few seconds before focusing on the scar below Sherlock's wrist. He was right, it _had_ been deep—and had obviously not been healed by magic.

"Idiot," John muttered. "Stay here."

He took the stairs to his bedroom two at a time and rifled through his dresser drawer for his nearly depleted bottle of dittany. It turned up a few minutes later, in his still-packed suitcase, but instead of returning immediately downstairs he found himself slumping at the foot of his bed, somehow exhausted.

It was too much to take in. Merlin, it was way too much.

He could've Summoned the dittany from downstairs, and they both knew it. But John had needed this—a few moments to collect himself, to let the emotions play across his face without an audience. After a minute, John levered himself upright and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. If he let himself, he would stay here, curled up in his solitude forever. And Sherlock needed him.

So John pushed himself to his feet and went back downstairs.

Sherlock was sitting exactly where he'd left him, lost in thought or memory, tracing the lines of the Dark Mark with his wand.

"When I was first found," he said in a low tone, almost to himself, "they said I tried to scratch it off. To carve it out of me."

John stood stock still, not sure what to say.

"Is there any way to get rid of it?" he asked at last.

"No. It's a lifetime commitment."

John shivered at the irony in his tone.

"I hope he really is gone for good."

"For my sake or Harry's?"

John was pretty sure they weren't talking about his sister. "Both."

Sherlock was silent. John perched on the coffee table and uncorked the dittany, directing a small amount out of the bottle with his wand, letting it soak into the scar on Sherlock's forearm. More to break the silence than anything, he added, "I'm surprised you bothered to remember Harry's name. Doesn't seem like relevant information."

"Anything to do with the Dark Lord is relevant information."

"Guess so."

"You've never met the boy, have you?"

"No," said John. "He's only been at Hogwarts a year or so. I asked, when he was a baby, but Dumbledore's… Dumbledore's been keeping his whereabouts quiet."

"Will you?"

"Meet him? I don't know." John concentrated on the shrinking scar. "He was—is—Sirius' godson. I don't want to get him mixed up in that. And I was so close to his parents. I'm afraid I'll look at him and just see James. That wouldn't be fair to Harry."

Sherlock was quiet for a minute. "He might need you."

This was so uncharacteristic that John let his wand falter, the last few drops of dittany splashing to the carpet.

"Sorry," he sighed. "I think it's as cleared up as it's going to get, anyway."

Sherlock inspected the faint scar on his skin with disinterest. "It seems so."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yes, that conversation took a looong time to get around to. I know, I know, I was pulling my hair out too. Thank you for your patience. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I didn't keep things as realistic as I could (what do you mean this is a story about magic and werewolves?)**

**Anyway, part of the beauty of Sherlock and John's friendship is that it's usually unspoken. So I thought that when it came to an emotionally charged situation like this, they would sort of stutter over it. Typical men, right...oh wait, I'm female and I do exactly the same thing...**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hi. Did you miss me?**

**Because I've missed you. So sorry about the hiatus. I haven't been idle, if that helps. I have SO MUCH of this written, you guys have no idea. It was driving me mad not being able to share it with you. My writing process is, er, rarely chronological, so there's a lot of going back and filling in the gaps. **

**Here's what happened. I suffer frequent writing-related insomnia, and...well. I couldn't sleep one night for all the ideas that kept coming, and I went ahead and mapped out the whole storyline. So there's lots of good stuff coming. I'll rely on your feedback. We are going all the way through this Wizarding war together, my friends. **

**Not sure I'm happy with this chapter, so please let me know what you think. It's intentionally lighthearted-I tried to wrap up Sherlock and John's conversation in a substantial yet humorous way.**

* * *

><p>Something was bothering Lestrade, about his ill-fated visit to Baker Street.<p>

It wasn't Sherlock. It wasn't his mysterious tattoo. It was that hound from hell. The one that, whatever Sherlock said, looked an awful lot like a wolf.

Well, the dog itself was disturbing enough, but mostly it was something else Sherlock had said.

_"I'm looking after him…for a friend."_

Since when did Sherlock have friends, besides Lestrade and John, and maybe his landlady? And since when did anyone ask Sherlock Holmes to puppysit?

Since when did Sherlock reply to 'idiotic' questions from detective inspectors who ought to be able, according to him, to deduce the answers for themselves?

_What is a bloody great wolf doing on your sofa?_

_ I should think it was obvious, Lestrade. You can tell by the scuff on my left shoe that I invited him in for tea…_

No, Sherlock didn't bother with explanations unless he cared. He didn't care unless he wanted to prove how clever he was…or he wanted you to believe a lie.

Which meant…

Sherlock wasn't puppysitting for anyone. He had, somehow, acquired a dog. (It was only logical that any pet Sherlock adopted would be the scariest creature in the universe.) _How_ he'd acquired it was something of a mystery. But it wasn't hard to guess why.

Even Sherlock Holmes got lonely. Whatever the man was, he wasn't an automaton. And now that John was gone—_especially_ since John was gone—maybe it was high time someone remembered that.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock."<p>

John's voice interrupted his musings, and Sherlock realized that he had slipped back into his mind palace again, probably without giving any warning. There were one or two points he still needed to process regarding their conversation—or rather, John's reaction to it—but he, after all, was not the one taking in a huge amount of new information. John lacked his processing methods and filing system, and John deserved any clarification he desired. So on the third or fourth repetition of his name, Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Wow," commented John, mildly impressed. "The previous record was eight."

Sherlock sniffed. "I presume this interruption stems from more than a whim to gather empirical data on my response times?"

"That's really more of your domain, wouldn't you say?" John's grin faded slightly. "I actually, ah, meant to ask about the drugs. You never really explained…"

"Of course." Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin, closing his eyes. "I also haven't accounted for my fairly rocky relationship with my brother."

John's head jerked up and Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft," he clarified. "I told you, I have had no contact with Sirius. Imagine being informed that Moriarty was your long-lost brother."

John considered. "I'm not sure I would feel quite the same way you would…"

Sherlock grinned. "Mycroft did feel compelled to discourage me from investigating his case," he admitted.

John's eyes widened. "Investigate? What was there to investigate?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "You'd be surprised. The Ministry regularly mucks things up worse than Scotland Yard. Sometimes I could swear they've been cloning Anderson and sending him to Auror training…However, Sirius' guilt did seem fairly conclusive."

"Anderson's a Muggle," John pointed out after a pause in which he could think of nothing to say.

"Precisely."

"So, basically, your murdering brother—biological brother," John felt compelled to add, since he was not entirely certain that no wrongdoers had met their doom at the business end of Mycroft's umbrella, "is an object of morbid fascination and nothing else."

"You can see why, on the whole, I prefer Mycroft. If only marginally."

"Right," said John, wondering at what point his emotions would be so tightly knotted his head would explode. No doubt Sherlock would also find that an object of morbid fascination. Not to mention a confirmation of the perils of undue sentiment.

"So why the tension between you two?"

"You're personally familiar with Mycroft's methods of exercising influence," said Sherlock calmly. "How would you describe them?"

John thought. "In a word…overbearing."

"I thought so."

Understanding dawned. "He spied on you?"

Sherlock snorted. "Spying was the least of it. He still does that, for your information—we're fortunate that the amount of magical energy in the flat shorts out most cameras, but I've taken to doing routine sweeps as Muggle technology has advanced—"

John was slightly shocked. "You think your brother would plant cameras in our flat?"

"I _know_ he would. It wouldn't be the first time. Mycroft's aid is always a double-edged sword. And like you—like me, in fact—he took the verdict of 'not guilty' with a grain of salt. Hence my adoption into the Holmes family—it was the most effective means not only of 'protecting' me, but also of monitoring me." Sherlock seethed. "As he has demonstrated on more than one occasion."

"Couldn't you just short out the cameras magically?"

"Sometimes. Wandless magic is imprecise, even for me."

John was flabbergasted. "You didn't have a wand?"

"Mycroft's doing." Sherlock's voice was distant, lost in not-altogether-pleasant memories. "I was a convicted Death Eater, if nothing else. He felt I had to 'earn' the privilege back. In spite of my apparent innocence."

"Isn't that…"

"Illegal? Highly. In our world."

"So why not just…" John snapped his mouth shut. "Right."

"I was in hiding, you recall."

"So how long did he withhold your wand?" John couldn't help seething a little himself. Mycroft's precaution had been a practical measure, maybe, but it went against every law on the books. And it just wasn't _right_—for a wizard, being without a wand was like missing an eye, or a right arm. Even a power-crazed Muggle ought to understand that.

And John had the nasty feeling Mycroft had.

"About a year."

John slumped back in his chair. "You must have been going mad."

"That is fairly accurate, yes."

"So what did you do?"

"Distracted myself. Irritated Mycroft. I think it was at that point that we both realized the burden of our new family ties. Studying the Muggle sciences was the only relief I had from the crushing tedium."

John swallowed as the echo of Lestrade's words came back to him. _I know where that's lead before…_

"Is that when…"

"Mycroft cut me off from the Wizarding world," said Sherlock simply. "I explored what the Muggle one had to offer."

"So you were bored," said John flatly. "You bloody idiot."

Sherlock's face went strangely blank.

"Sorry," John apologized after a moment. Quietly. "It isn't just boredom, is it?"

"No," said Sherlock curtly.

"So were you…"

Sherlock rose and began to pace across the room, refusing to meet John's eye. "What was it you called me in the early stages of your blog? A madman?"

John froze. "Er," he said lamely, after a moment. "I did…that is…"

Sherlock had paused by the mantelpiece to watch John struggle. Some slight trace of smugness in his raised eyebrows made John's embarrassment grind to a halt.

"Yes, I did," he declared, glaring at Sherlock. "And I'm not entirely certain my opinion has changed."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. But John didn't notice. He continued, glowering into his mug of tea, now cold and filming over.

"Let's both take a moment to recall that first night, shall we? Or is your memory selective as well as damaged?"

John was caught off guard by a low rumbling sound, and looked up from his tea in shock. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard Sherlock laugh. It was as infectious as always.

"Arbitrary though your benchmark for insanity may be…it was slightly closer to the mark back then."

"That's…frankly terrifying," said John without thinking. Sherlock frowned.

"Do keep in mind that the Muggle world was entirely new to me."

"So when the Yarders tried to scare me off…"

"Did they?" Sherlock was amused. "I'll bet it was Sally. She never quite got over the levitating corpse incident."

"_What?_" John gagged out.

"Give me _some _credit," Sherlock snapped. "I achieved that quite without the aid of magic...they figured it out eventually. I was bored," he added, by way of explanation.

On second thought, John decided not to ask. "You know, it really is a bloody _miracle_ they haven't figured out the whole magic thing yet."

"I've gone to some pains, even back then."

"Have you?" John asked in some trepidation.

"Yes. I spent a month pretending to be a vampire once, just to throw Anderson off the scent."

John choked out a laugh. "Did he believe you?"

"Wouldn't you?"

John had to admit it sounded plausible.

"So when I showed up and they all acted so cold, they were genuinely trying to warn poor innocent Dr. Watson away from a possibly undead madman."

"More or less. By the way, do you prefer 'Remus Lupin' now?"

"_How_—never mind." John threw his hands up. "I don't want to know. John Watson is fine. We don't want to change our names now, make Scotland Yard to think we're crazier than they do already—"

"Oh, it's 'we' now?"

"I don't think that's in question anymore," said John drily. Then he sobered as a thought struck him. "You don't…you prefer to go by…"

Sherlock's smile faded. "Sherlock. Obviously. No question."

"Good," said John, straight-faced. "Because I don't think even Mrs. Holmes could have come up with 'Regulus'."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Actually…"

"Oh, Merlin," John hid his face in his hands. "Don't tell me there are more Holmes siblings."

"There aren't. Actually I was just going to say it's 'Regulus Arcturus', in full."

"That's it." John pointed at his flatmate. "You are not allowed near any more melodramatic nomenclature. If you ever have children—"

Sherlock snorted.

"—your wife will name them for you. If you ever get a pet—"

"According to my brother, I had an Irish Setter named Redbeard," said Sherlock thoughtfully, plucking his bow from the coffee table and running an oiled cloth along its length. "Sometimes I think that falsifying my childhood is the only creative outlet Mycroft has. Although pirating _does_ strike me as an intriguing career choice. I think he writes short stories."

John chose not to comment.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, "this is a nice lecture to receive from a werewolf named Wolf Raised By Wolves."

John buried his face in his hands. "That is entirely not my fault."

"Very well." Sherlock finished polishing his bow and set the cloth down. "Where were we?"

"You were, um…"

Sherlock cast him a withering stare from across the room. "That was rhetorical."

"Right," said John meekly. "So, you…got off the cocaine, then?"

Sherlock restrained a sigh with effort. "Lestrade's doing, mainly. Mycroft's methods generally involved locking me in various torture chambers—rehabilitation centers—" he spat the phrase, "—for weeks on end. That didn't go well, for various reasons."

John could only imagine.

"It turns out that acute withdrawal has odd effects on manifestations of magical energy," Sherlock continued. "_Fascinating_ effects, actually, but after a few weeks the government grew strangely loath to continue supplying building reconstruction grants, so I didn't have much opportunity to study them—nor was I in the frame of mind, truth be told…"

John stared. "You're joking."

"I'm not." Sherlock tucked his violin under his chin. "No one died, but Mycroft wasn't amused."

"So what happened?"

"I took up cases," said Sherlock simply. "One evening, quite by accident, I came across Lestrade's team making their usual imbecilic attempt to solve a double murder. I was able to set a few details in order—"

"While high out of your mind on cocaine, or sober?" John interrupted.

Sherlock turned an icy glare on him. "Does it matter? I started consulting, gave up drugs, la de da, happy ending." He played a few notes with a flourish.

"And were there any other…side effects?" asked John hesitantly. "From whatever took your memories?"

"None that I know of." Sherlock played a few quick C sharps, hoping to bring the conversation to a close; his fingers longed to spring into one of Vivaldi's masterpieces. "Mycroft sent my wand back the day he was convinced I was clean. I had solved a little matter for the queen—something about royal jewels—" Sherlock waved a careless hand. "And I got a flatmate. Things got…better."

_Better,_ John thought, letting his gaze wander around the flat—the peeling, old-fashioned wallpaper, the mingled scientific equipment and potions kit scattered over the kitchen table, the letters stabbed into the mantelpiece next to the grinning skull. And the tall violinist in front of the mirror, instrument raised to his chin, waiting.

"Shall I?"

"Please." John smiled.

And the lilting notes of Vivaldi's Spring Concerto filled the air.


	14. Chapter 14

"You're going to see him, aren't you."

Heading for a rare early lunch break, and struggling with a stack of folders, a half-empty coffee cup, and one arm in his jacket sleeve, Lestrade didn't register the question at first. By the time it leaked through to his brain, his feet had already paused. Blast.

Dropping the case files in a nearby desk, Greg turned unwillingly toward Sally, who was seated at her own desk. Buried in a small mountain of paperwork herself, she hadn't looked up or turned her head while speaking. Bad sign.

Greg played dumb. "Who?" The moment the word left his mouth, he was berating himself silently. Who was the detective inspector here, anyway?

The look Sally gave him was uncomfortably reminiscent of the unacknowledged subject of their discussion. "You know who."

Lestrade's mouth tightened.

"We need him, Sergeant."

Donovan dropped her eyes after a charged moment, recognizing the warning in the reference to her rank. Greg rarely stooped to that—rarely needed to. On the few occasions he and his team butted heads, it was usually about the Freak.

Bloody ridiculous, it was. Holmes didn't merit half the consideration Lestrade showed him. Even Watson had realized that by now.

"Very well, _sir._"

Shifting the coffee to his left hand, Greg succeeded in pulling his other arm through his sleeve and retrieving his papers. Time to get on with it.

"I'll expect the Blackwell report on my desk by noon," was all he said as he brushed past Sally.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>Sherlock…_"_

Over a day had passed since the highly revelatory conversation that still left John feeling he was stepping off a cliff every time he thought about it. And that information had been so dizzyingly compounded by this morning's news that John felt rather as though some segment of his brain had shut it away, set it all aside completely until he had the solitude to take it in properly. The result was a slightly disorienting and certainly deceptive sense of serenity. Still, John reflected, he hadn't lost his mind entirely, which could only be regarded as a plus; vaguely he wondered whether this was the effect Sherlock referred to when he filed something away in his 'mind palace'.

Speaking of.

_"Sherlock."_

This time John only had to repeat the name three times before Sherlock paused in his relentless pacing. John spared a compassionate glance at the carpet to ensure that he hadn't worn any fresh holes in it; the poor thing had been _Reparoed _so many times it was probably more magic than thread.

One side of the blue silk robe was dragging on the ground, and Sherlock's hair was standing on end from the half-dozen times he'd run his hands through it in the past five minutes. The pacing halted, one heel bouncing up and down with barely restrained energy while Sherlock regarded John with the expression of slight outrage he always wore when forcibly ousted from his mind palace. In short, all the symptoms were there. John heroically restrained a sigh.

"You need to get out of the flat. Go to Bart's, go to the lab, go grocery shopping at Tesco's for all I care, but get out of here."

"Oh, don't make me play mother," he snapped, as Sherlock made an abrupt and overly exaggerated turn toward the door. "Make yourself presentable first."

Sherlock glanced down, looking slightly lost, as though it had escaped him that he was barefoot and half-dressed. Evidently his speech functions were still lost somewhere in the morass he called a mind palace. John supposed he should be grateful for the respite, while it last—

"What makes you think I want to _go_ anywhere?"

Ah, the gauntlet had fallen. That was progress.

John threw down his newspaper with slightly more force than necessary, striving to keep his irritation from his tone.

"Let's see…you haven't left the flat in a week, you haven't taken up any cases within that time, you've spent the last two days writing up your experiments and you binned the last of them this morning, with the result that the flat is the least odiferous it's been since we moved in. Bit of a warning sign in and of itself. Despite practically twitching every time you go near it, you haven't touched your violin in almost a day, and it's taken you forty minutes of pacing to try to decipher my laptop password, as opposed to the usual fifteen. You're bouncing off the walls and it's driving me mad. So get out."

It was hard work keeping a childishly triumphant smirk from his face in the rare moments the tables were turned. After patiently enduring a few seconds of his flatmate's glare, John gave in and decided to be childish. He relented when Sherlock's scowl only became more pronounced.

"Lestrade must be at his wit's end by now with that burglary case, why don't you head over to the Yard?" he suggested, picking up his paper and brushing an owl feather off of it.

That proposal, at least, garnered a few second's consideration. Sherlock shot half a glance at his phone, which lay silent and still; it had been buzzing all morning. After a moment he came to a decision.

"Will you come?" The question came a little too quickly to be entirely casual.

John glared over the headline. "You know I'm no fun after the full moon." It was only the second day following the transformation, and his joints were still aching badly. Not quite as bad as the previous month, but…actually, come to think of it, the recent lack of Wolfsbane probably had a lot to do with it.

"I'll brew you something."

"No_, _you won't. You'll get out of this flat before you accidentally catch the curtains on fire again. _No, _Sherlock, I mean it," as Sherlock opened his mouth again to argue. "A full week cooped up in this flat together is not going to do either of us any good, and I'm not going anywhere for at least another day…"

Sherlock's shoulder twitched involuntarily, and John trailed off. _Oh._

"…I'm not going anywhere," he repeated in a slightly softer tone, meeting Sherlock's eye. "Okay?"

Finally Sherlock gave a jerky nod and executed another abrupt pirouette, this time in the direction of his bedroom. After a moment's hesitation he pulled off his dressing gown and flung it over the back of a chair before stalking off down the hall, presumably to change out of his T-shirt and pajamas. The now-familiar sight of the Dark Mark made John even more acutely aware of how blind he'd been for the past year…or rather, how careful Sherlock had been. The morning after their conversation he'd ventured to ask why Sherlock didn't simply hide the thing with a glamour. The answer hadn't exactly been comforting.

"Not possible, John. A simple illusion isn't enough. Above all else, the Dark Mark is a symbol of allegiance. The Dark Lord would see its concealment as a sign of shame, of wavering loyalty..."

"That's…completely mental." John blinked. "Didn't realize he was such a diva."

Sherlock half-smiled. "It's not just a tattoo, John, it's a magical link to _him_. There are specific potions capable of concealing it, for those followers who are undercover by necessity, but they have to be brewed by the hand of Voldemort himself—a useful level of control, don't you think? That's why he can torment them, rule by fear…So long as his side has a fighting chance, the Mark prevents anyone from getting cold feet, because there's no hiding that allegiance. That's why so many Death Eaters came forward claiming they were Imperiused, after the war…he leaves them no other recourse."

John had to admit that made strategic sense. "I still don't see how I didn't…" he trailed off.

"I didn't want you to, that's why. I never pretended—" Sherlock paused for a heartbeat. "Concealment is a gift of mine. Think of it as the consequence of a decade of Mycroft's meddling. If it weren't for pure bad luck, you'd be blind to this still."

The admission was simple, unqualified, unapologetic. John knew full well that he wouldn't be able to sort out his feelings about _that_ in a hurry, so he didn't even try. Instead he enquired in a mild tone, "Bad luck?"

A pause, and that unreadable expression again.

"I don't know."

John was already turning away when Sherlock added in a low tone, "It's getting harder."

"What?"

"Concealing it." Sherlock rubbed at his sleeve. "After he vanished, it faded. Substantially. But it's been darkening for the past year. The night you left…" he stopped. "It was the boldest I've seen it in a very long time."

A chill ran down John's spine.

"That was in…late June, was it?" he asked cautiously.

"Of _course_ it…I mean, yes. It was."

"And it's…faded, since?" He could feel his heart pulsing along his throat as he waited for the reply.

Sherlock frowned. "Slightly…John?"

If John could practically feel the color draining from his face he was certain Sherlock would notice it too, but he said nothing. Sherlock was studying him with narrowed eyes, probably trying to guess at his thoughts again. This time, however, the effort was fruitless.

Because there was no way he could know that Dumbledore's promised owl had arrived that morning, and with it a long roll of parchment detailing the adventures of three eleven-year-olds, a Philosopher's Stone, and a Dark Lord who was significantly less mortal than he should have been…

"John?"

John blinked. Lost in thought, he'd hardly noticed Sherlock reenter the room in his usual impeccable state of dress. He had paused by the door, studying John as he wound his scarf around his neck.

"You're thinking about it again," Sherlock accused. "The thing you aren't telling me."

John sighed. "You're doing it again."

Sherlock waited.

"Er…yes. I am, actually."

"The letter?"

John actually turned in his seat, open-mouthed. _"How—"_

"Please." Sherlock waved a hand. "Different owls, different wingspans, different cadence and volume associated with the flight pattern. The _Daily Prophet _only employs barn owls. The one I heard upstairs this morning was an eagle owl or a great grey. You don't receive any other publications, therefore it must have been private correspondence, alarming enough to leave you visibly rattled during breakfast as well as our later conversation. It's hardly rocket sci—hardly Arithmancy."

All of this was delivered at a speed that forcibly reminded John of the time he and Harry had fed an entire packet of Fizzing Whizzbees to a Cornish pixie. Sherlock's expression, too, was even more smug than usual, and it took John only a moment to recognize the payback for his own earlier 'deductions'. Rather torn between laughing and hexing him, John picked up his wand and pointed at Sherlock, allowing a few sparks to fly from the tip.

"Yes, it was a letter, and yes, I'll tell you. Later. Now get out."

* * *

><p>After Sherlock had gone, John let out a long sigh. Guilty though he felt thinking it, the solitude was pure relief. As though the departure of his flatmate and the whirling haze of his thoughts had physically drained something from the air, leaving a blessed vacuum behind, in which John could sort out his own thoughts in peace. Strange how <em>empty <em>could have so many different meanings.

It didn't take more than ten minutes of peace and quiet for the stillness to start getting to him, however. Not that John wasn't enjoying it, it just…couldn't concentrate on his own thoughts, for some reason. And he knew, at least, knew better to try—best not to end up a distracted, bedraggled mess like someone he could name.

And without _someone_ around to blame, John reluctantly admitted that he was getting a bit of cabin fever himself.

The third time his eyes were drawn to the bar of sunlight leaking through the stirring, half-drawn curtains, John threw down his newspaper and decided to escape outdoors. It was a glorious autumn day, now that the fog had dissipated, and he wouldn't go far—hadn't been joking about his exhaustion earlier. Just nip down to the café for some lunch. By the looks of things, Sherlock hadn't done the shopping in nearly a month, and John knew from unfortunate experience that living off greasy takeout and canned beans was far from the best way to recover from a physically taxing transformation.

John retrieved a light jacket from the hook by the door and stumped down the stairs, wondering whether it was too late in the morning to request a full English, the way Mrs. Hudson always made it. All he'd had that morning was a bit of toast, the tail end of the loaf that someone, presumably 'not his housekeeper', had deposited pointedly on the counter before John's return. And right now his stomach seemed intent on reminding him of that fact.

The moment he set foot on the landing, his thoughts began to whirl again.

Mrs. Hudson—John hadn't seen her yet; she'd been out for nearly a week, apparently, visiting a cousin in Surrey. He'd found that out the morning after his return, from a day-old note pinned inside the front door. Sherlock himself had seemed hardly aware of the fact.

Dwelling on the thought of Mrs. Hudson, John cringed slightly to imagine the sort of welcome he'd receive. By now he was fairly convinced that she was in fact a saint, but two and a half months in the sole company of Sherlock Holmes would try anyone's patience. John knew from experience how reluctant the landlady was to leave them on their own ("Mrs. Hudson, I _am _capable of a fry-up, at least," he'd protested halfheartedly, on more than one occasion). For her to leave Baker Street—well, barring a family emergency of some sort, Sherlock really must have been driving her up the wall. England hadn't fallen yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Yet another tendril of guilt uncurled inside John. His departure, it seemed, hadn't done anyone any favors—and if anyone deserved a word of explanation, it was Mrs. Hudson.

John shoved aside the thought with a sigh. He'd do his best to explain, when she got back. Well, he himself hadn't gotten any owls from her, but before leaving she certainly would have contacted Mycroft, or—

At the foot of the stairs, John stopped short. Mycroft.

Dear Merlin.

It took a moment to persuade his feet to move again. Don't think about that right now, John told himself firmly. Not his business; not anyone's business. Didn't do anything without good reason. Anyway, was Sherlock the only one allowed to be bloody heartless once in a while?

_You're doing it again, _his inner Ella remonstrated, and John bit back a sigh. For once she was right. Lack of a heart was not his problem. Or Sherlock's either, come to think of it.

That's what he should be thinking about. Sherlock's revelations. Or Dumbledore's for that matter. Not himself.

Or, better yet…not anything at all.

_Café. Lunch. Sunshine. _

John straightened his jacket, trying not to reflect on the relief of being back in Muggle clothes, and then reached firmly for the door, yanking it open a bit harder than he'd intended. Done beating himself up over this. Finished.

Then again, John realized, drawing to a halt face-to-face with the man on the doorstep, perhaps he wouldn't have to.


End file.
